


Pieces of a Puzzle

by SosaLola



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: Autism, Gen, M/M, Sequel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-10
Updated: 2015-08-13
Packaged: 2018-04-14 01:02:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 23,742
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4544148
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SosaLola/pseuds/SosaLola
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Spike's stay at Xander's apartment proves to be more interesting than he ever thought. This fic is a sequel to my fic "A Kick From the Inside," but you don't have to read it to understand this one.</p><p>Set in S7 Post-Selfless.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

  
  
  


~*~*~*~*~

  
  
  
  


**Chapter One**

  
  
  
  
  
Yelling, fighting, all I hear these days are loud voices attacking each other. One bloody row after another. They keep at it until one of them storms out of the room, leaving the issue at hand unresolved. It's the same song– every sodding day – and it's starting to get under everybody's skin. While the others are more pissed off by the shouting match, I'm more bothered by the rigid fingers pointed at me. They're doing it again, yapping as if I'm not in the room. That because I'm insane they think I won't understand what they're saying about  _me_.   
  
Weak. Evil. Pathetic. Insults tossed around, describing me from both sides. I pride myself for standing on my two feet instead of rocking in a fetal position on the floor, even though I lack the courage to look any of them in the eye.  
  
I shift my weight to lean against the doorframe of the Summers' living room, wincing when Xander pulls Buffy close and whispers in her ear, reminding her that I tried to rape her last year. Those soft spoken words, whispered so no one but Buffy would hear, sting my ears more than anything he has ever yelled about me.   
  
Dawn rolls her eyes again in an adolescent show of boredom. She throws a stabbing glare in my direction and walks past me out of the room. My leather boots have never looked as appealing as they do at the moment.   
  
"They're at it again?" Willow's voice drifts from upstairs followed by the sound of her feet hurrying down. "Oh, Spike? You're out of the school basement?"  
  
She looks exhausted, like someone who has been waking up every day to the same old tune: who's going to house me. I thought everything was settled when Buffy came over today and took me to her house– that is until Harris put a hole in the wall by slamming the front door with a grand entrance.   
  
I watch them roaring at each other in numb silence. Here they are, deciding my life for me, and I've yet to feel offended. I just don't  _care_  anymore. The soul I fought for was for Buffy. Somehow I figured that everything will be magically fixed once I got it. But now that I have it, nothing seems to have changed: my presence still makes Buffy tense, Dawn distrusts me, and Harris is the same minging arsehole of the highest order.  
  
There's nothing out there worth fighting for anymore. Buffy is fine on her own, much happier and content with me gone. None of her friends even like me. Best thing to do now is to just move on. Maybe leave Sunnydale altogether.   
  
Perhaps I will. Once the insane episode is over.   
  
"… you should know, you slept with him…"  
  
"… hasn't been your business since you abandoned the fight…"  
  
"… how could you let him touch you? How could you let him near Dawn?…"  
  
"… where were  _you_  when we were rescuing Dawn from Glory?..."  
  
Then again, maybe I'm sane enough to pack my bags and bid them all farewell. Anything but listening to the same squabble again. It won't sit well with Buffy though, not to mention the sunny sun outside.   
  
This time it's getting uglier than usual; even Willow looks freaked out. As the peacemaker, she rushes into the room and tries to reason with the wildcats. Her interference seems to have calmed them down and for the next hour they are able to discuss the matter like a couple of human beings.   
  
That's when it happens. Between the quarreling two, my vision blurs and the shape of my identical twin fills the empty space. I've yet to get used to looking at my reflection after all these years. Those blue eyes I haven't seen for more than a century are looking back at me with icy ridicule.   
  
Fingers snap in my line of sight. "Yo, nut-case! You're coming with me."  
  
I stare at Harris' pissed off face in confusion.   
  
He shakes his head and looks back at his chums. "You owe me big."  
  
Buffy's glare deepens. "I won't owe you a thing if you do as I say."  
  
"Forget it, Buff." He shoves me toward the door. "Move it, dumbass!"   
  
So, it's decided. I'm going to live at Harris' flat. The joy.   
  
The sod would risk anything as long as I don't get near the Slayer. Even the privacy of his sacred home, which looks nothing like I expected. From the very few times I've come across the boy, I figured I'd find a dump of superman dolls and Star Trek merchandise. To my surprise and disappointment – I was counting on teasing him for entertainment – his flat looks like a boring picture from an Ikea magazine.   
  
"You may think I'm gonna bore you with a list of rules, which I will, once I get around to framing them on the wall," Harris witters on as we walk across the flat to the door on the right, "but for now, there's only one rule. One vital rule. Break it and you'll find yourself swept under that rug."   
  
He pushes the door open, revealing a dark haired child of about three or four arranging toy cars on the floor. "Never come near him. Do we understand each other?"  
  
I stare at the silent boy inside his ridiculously decorated room – the car-shaped bed is overkill. So,  _this_  is the precious Harris baby I was never allowed to see. The one his father had handed over his Scooby badge for, before signing into his current life as an average Joe.   
  
Harris walks inside the small windowless room and crouches down next to his son. "Hey there, Sam," he whispers tenderly. "That's Spike. He's going to stay with us for a while."  
  
Sam doesn't even look at me, too absorbed putting his blue cars in line with the yellow cars.  
  
"He's gonna be sleeping on our couch, okay?" Xander lifts the boy's chin to make him look him in the eyes. "Spike is gonna sleep on our couch. Okay?"  
  
The boy jerks away from his father's hold and mumbles a soft, "Okay."  
  
I watch him go back to what he's doing with mild interest. Thought boys his age were louder and more annoying. I'm going to like this one.   
  
Xander rises to his feet and then points a sharp finger at my face. "If you touch a hair…"  
  
"Can't. Chip, remember?"   
  
He walks towards me until we're standing face to face, his hot breath burning my skin. "That chip of yours is the only reason I agreed to this."  
  
Agreed to what? He was the one who demanded I stay here. My retort goes unsaid when he pushes me out and closes the door to his son's room behind him with a firm click. The lousy drawing of a little boy with glittering letters spelling "Sam" that is glued to the brat's door is sure to give me nightmares all week.   
  
  
  
  


~*~*~*~*~

  
  
  
  
  
  
It's almost 5 A. M. Night time at Harris' nest wasn't so bad. I didn't have to interact with him or his little brat. Got the window blinds all shut and my mug of blood on the table next to me, all ready for a good morning sleep. I wiggle on Harris' surprisingly comfy couch and pull the blanket to my chest. My lungs itch for a good smoke, but that's on the top of the  _'Don'ts'_  list hanging on the door. Guess I'll have to just settle for the comfort of the darkness to soothe me to sleep.   
  
"Nooooo!"  
  
On instinct, I jump off the couch and resume a fighting stance. Through the darkness I can see him clearly; the little figure running toward the window and trying to pull down the string.   
  
"Sammy!" Harris hurries out of his room with a baseball bat. He punches the lights on with a fist and then swings the bat at me, missing as I duck out of the way. "What did you do to him?!"  
  
"Nothing," I say from my place on the couch, staring with amusement at his bloodshed eyes and the trembling baseball bat.   
  
"Light off! Light off!"  
  
Xander lowers the bat and blinks his droopy eyes at his son jumping and screaming next to the already opened blinds. Seeing as Xander has calmed down, I venture to my feet and take the bat out of his hands; a dangerous item like that in a mother bear's hands would be fatal to a vampire.   
  
"Light off!"  
  
Xander turns off the lights sending the room into a dim state of darkness. "There, now stop screaming!"   
  
The child is illuminated by the moonlight, looking like he just came out of one of those horror flicks. His eyes glisten with determination, daring us to defy his wishes.   
  
"He's your son, all right. Wants me to burst into flames when Mr. Golden Sun peeks through."  
  
Xander wearily messages his temples. "Sammy, honey, we have to shut the blinds while Spike stays here."  
  
The boy stomps his foot. "Window open!"  
  
"Spike hates the sun. We have to shut the blinds." Xander walks toward the window and closes the blinds.   
  
"Noooooo!"   
  
I scowl, cursing my vamp hearing. Some lungs on that tyke. To my horror, I witness for the very first time in a century’s worth of slaughter and mayhem, my first child tantrum. It's exactly as scary as it sounds. The boy literally drops to the floor, banging his head on the hard surface, while smacking his hands and kicking his legs everywhere.   
  
Xander hangs his head. "God, I'm too tired for this."   
  
One would think I'd enjoy watching my least favorite Scooby suffer. It's the soul no doubt. "Put your foot down and tell him your word is law."  
  
"It's not that simple."  
  
"This is ridiculous." I bend in front of the child, earning a few kicks at my face. "Listen, brat! Those blinds will be shut all night and day, got that?"  
  
"WINDOW OPEN!!!!"   
  
"Okay, okay!" Xander lifts his hands in surrender. "Spike will sleep in Daddy's room."  
  
"Over my dead body," I object right away.   
  
Xander opens the blinds and suddenly I've gone deaf. The child looks up at his father with a betrayed expression on his face. "Why close window, Daddy?"   
  
"It's open now." He helps his son to his feet and plants a kiss on his forehead.   
  
"Don't close window!"  
  
"I won't. Now let's take you to your room." He scoops up his son and gives him a couple of kisses on his cheek.   
  
"Don't see why I can't sleep in his room instead. It has no windows, a five-star room for a vampire."   
  
"Not really in the mood for jokes, Spike."   
  
"I wasn't joking."  
  
He ignores me and starts making his way to the boy's room. The spoiled brat throws a few distrustful glances at the window through his father's shoulder.   
  
Pausing before going into the room, Xander looks back at me with a fierce stare. "Go wait in my room. I'll be there in a sec."   
  
With a sigh, I grab my mug and the blanket – figure Harris will hog the covers. The bedroom is pitch black, thank God, and has a king sized bed. It appears he was sleeping on the side closer to the door, so I walk over to the other side. I barely find a place on the nightstand for my mug with all the framed pictures taking over the space; an old picture of him, Buffy, and Willow in high school, another one of Joyce and an infant Sam, and more pictures of Sam at different ages.   
  
I snuggle against the pillow and close my eyes, letting the silence loll me to sleep.   
  
"What are you doing?"  
  
So much for the silence. I open an eyelid. "Trying my hardest to sleep?"  
  
"In my bed?  
  
"You don't mean I'm to sleep on the floor?"  
  
"You used to sleep in a coffin, Spike. What's the difference?"  
  
I lever myself on one elbow. "There's a bed in Buffy's basement. Think I'll pack my bags of blood and have my slumber party there."  
  
Xander huffs out an angry breath. "Fine!"  
  
The bed shakes when the Harris bomb lands and suddenly I find myself without a blanket. I snatch it back and give the wanker my back, trying to ignore the sound of his raging heartbeat and the flow of his blood. It's been a while since I've slept next to a human.   
  
"Uh, Spike, was I dreaming it or did you really reference Barney earlier?"  
  
"Well, six or seven years ago I slashed the necks of vulnerable children in an orphanage. Bloody song was playing in the background."   
  
"Serves me right for asking."   
  
  
  
  
  
  


~*~*~*~*~

  
  
  
  
  
"Dear God!"  
  
The sudden piercing exclaim sends me jumping into action. Fists brought up and knees bent, I take a fighting stance on top of the mattress with my eyes barely open. What the bleeding hell is wrong with this place? Can't a vampire sleep in peace?  
  
"I'm really sorry, sir. You startled me," says the middle-aged woman who resembles a younger Mrs. Doubtfire. She adjusts her glasses and takes her time staring at me. "I did wonder why Mr. Harris never brought a woman over."  
  
I blink my eyes at the strange woman standing by the bedroom door with a white basket filled with clean folded clothes tucked against her hip. "What?"  
  
"I just came here to put away Mr. Harris' clothes." She walks over to the closet and starts arranging the clothes inside. "I don't usually do the ironing. Mr. Harris insists he doesn't want me doing any housework, but I get bored when Sammy starts watching Moon. That's what he calls his favorite movie."   
  
I rub my eyes and then stare closely at her. No, this isn't a dream. "Who are you?"  
  
The sweet lady flashes me a bright grin. "I'm Maggie. Sammy's nanny."  
  
Right. Harris is obviously at his job right now. Can't leave his son all alone, especially not with a vampire in the house.   
  
My head is banging from the lack of sleep since Xander had spent hours tossing and turning in bed; I couldn't doze off until he decided to make a trip to the loo. The git isn't used to having another bloke in bed with him and I had to suffer throughout the ordeal. I am getting out of here soon. Don't even care what bloody Buffy thinks.   
  
I run a hand over my head and stand awkwardly on the bed as the woman puts away the clean clothes into the closet.   
  
"I'm surprised Mr. Harris hasn't mentioned you before. He's usually very thorough about any changes in his and his son's life." She places the last set of folded shirts inside and then smiles knowingly at me. "Though I understand his reluctance."  
  
"You do?" I can't believe that Harris would tell her about the creatures of the night and what not. Perhaps being a parent, it's better to give the person in charge of taking care of his son the full picture.   
  
"I know at my age, you don't expect me to be understanding but I have no problem with Mr. Harris' lifestyle."  
  
"Lifestyle…? WHAT?" I just notice her pointed stare at my bare chest and instantly wrap my arms around myself. Bollocks, I left my shirt and coat in the living room. "You think we're a couple of poofs? I'm just here because my house is burnt up."  
  
She slaps her chest in shock. "Oh, dear, that must have been awful."  
  
"It was," I mutter, trying to block the ugly memories of Finn and those bloody eggs that cost me my beloved crypt.   
  
"So, you two…"  
  
"Are as straight as a board. I can reassure you that none of us are happy with this arrangement."  
  
A new piercing noise is attacking me from outside the room. I revert back to a fighting stance, but Maggie waves it off with a laugh. "Oh, it's just Sammy watching TV."  
  
I follow her outside the bedroom to a sunlit living room. I remain standing behind the wall in the safety of the shadows, realizing in dismay that my coat and shirt are lying on the couch, sucking in the heat of the sun. I shift my gaze to the little Harris sprawled on the couch with a bottle of milk in his hand.   
  
"Again!"  
  
Maggie groans. "Oh, I forgot to fast-forward that part."  
  
On TV, there's a fat man with a cat head explaining to a tiny kid with a dog head that Santa Clouse isn't real. Maggie takes the remote control and rewinds a bit until the little cartoon dog is on top of a pile of snow.   
  
 _"Like father, like goof. Kid's got the goof gene in his bloodstream."_  
  
 _"There is too a Santa,"_  the dog-kid on TV objects before he slips and falls down the mountain of snow.   
  
Sam bursts out laughing. "Again!"  
  
Maggie sighs and rewinds. Same twelve seconds are repeated. Same delighted laugh followed by "Again!" Now Maggie is mouthing out the lines.  
  
This is ridiculous. She's even worse than the boy's father. I turn my gaze from the screen to the boy on the couch, but then I see  _me_  again. Myself sitting on the couch next to Sam's, bathing in the sunlight with a content smile on my lips. Something looks a bit odd about it, as if my body is floating over the couch and the sunlight seems to be shining through me.   
  
"Again!"  
  
Maggie notices me standing behind her and shakes her head. "Oh, he loves this part so much he's going to watch it over and over."  
  
"Right." I blink when the figure on the couch disappears all of a sudden. "Think I'm going to head back to bed."   
  
Lightheaded, I head back to the bedroom, feeling the numbness spreading in my chest. I bite my lower lip in distress when I see my reflection again, on bed, naked, smirking. I find myself being drawn toward the bugger, losing the will to fight, losing control completely.   
  
  
  
  


~*~*~*~*~

  
  
  
  
Clad in black, I make my way out of the bedroom intending to head out for a good night stroll. Anything just to clear my mind off of the images of the devil wearing my face. My perfect stride is interrupted by Harris' brat sneaking through my moving legs. Thanks to vamp reflexes, I catch myself before smacking my face against Harris' scratchy carpet. I watch with wide eyes and mouth as little Sam paces around the room in a circle, listing tomorrow's daily activities to himself.   
  
"Where do you think you're going?"  
  
Behind me, Xander sits at the kitchen bar with a plate of chicken nuggets and begins cutting them into little pieces.   
  
Squaring my shoulders, I go for cool nonchalant. "Out."  
  
"Don't think so, pal."  
  
 _What the hell?_  "You don't tell me what to do."  
  
"Oh, it's not me. Believe me I would love to have you out of here in no time. It's Buffy's orders."  
  
Right. She's worries about me, obviously. Dumping me at Harris' house of loons and controlling my life from afar. "I don't answer to anyone."  
  
"Suit yourself. But the second you're out of the apartment, I'm calling her. Sammy!"  
  
The kid plunges from mid-circle, still yapping, and snatches the piece of meat from the fork his father is holding out to him with his mouth before going back to pacing.   
  
"And then…" chewing, "… I gets to watch Moon…" chewing, "… and then Maggie make macaroni…" chewing, "… and then I eats macaroni…"  
  
"Sammy, chew first, sweetie."  
  
After the second food launch, I catch myself and throw Harris a challenging stare. "I'll do whatever the bleeding hell I want."   
  
Just as I'm about to open the door, I hear him calling his son, "Sammy, go get Daddy's cell phone."  
  
I growl and yank the door open, but my determined stride goes as far as a couple of steps when an image of Buffy and her bloody stake flashes before my yellowing eyes. Knowing that I'll make a pitiful twat out of myself in front of her, I hang my head and retreat into the flat only to have my exasperation rising at the knowing grin on Xander's face.   
  
I slump on to the stool next to his and curse under my breath, wincing when Sam slams the front door shut.   
  
Xander keeps smiling as he holds out another piece of meat to his son. "I take it you met Maggie."  
  
Making small talk, aren't we? Too desperate for adult company. Well, he can beg on hands and knees, I won’t give him the satisfaction of even acknowledging his existence. Ignoring the fact that Xander does spend more time with adults at work than at home with his son, I make my way to the fridge and grab a bag of blood.   
  
I hear the wanker chuckle in amusement. "Giving me the silent treatment?"  
  
Still ignoring him, I pour the blood into my mug.   
  
"Buffy has a point, Spike. You can't go out while you're still insane."  
  
I lean against the fridge and take a sip, watching Sam going on and on about tomorrow's schedule while pacing in circles. Sure, I'm the insane one.  
  
"So, you have a soul now."  
  
I heave a sigh and walk around the bar to sit on the stool. "Yes."  
  
"How does that work?"  
  
"Just like it did with Angel."  
  
"That's the thing." He puts down the fork and looks me straight in the eye. "Is it permanent? Do you lose it when you have sex? Or is it something else for you."  
  
"I won't lose it 'cause it's not a curse." I take a couple of swallows of my blood. "I asked for it myself."  
  
Xander stares at me for a brief moment. "Because of Buffy."  
  
"Well, that's just something between me and Buffy."  
  
I expected him to get his angry face on and spit out a bunch of holier than thou nonsense but instead he smiles at me. A real genuine smile. "Guess we do the craziest things for love."  
  
"We?"  
  
His smile melts into a tender one when he looks at his queer son. I watch him spread out his arms to invite Sam into a hug, and the miracle happens; Sam stops pacing and throws himself into his father's embrace. It's an odd picture, never really expected that I'll think of Harris as anything but a sodding cockhead.   
  
Right now, I see him for who he really is; a father.   
  
  


~*~*~*~*~

  
  
  



	2. Chapter 2

  
  


  
  
  


~*~*~*~*~

  
  
  
  
  


**Chapter Two**

  
  
  
  
Strong hands are holding my arms shaking me out of my dazed state – "Calm the hell down, Spike!"   
  
"Wha- what?"   
  
Wide hazel eyes glisten in the dark with shock and fear. I jerk my head left and right, frantically trying to familiarize myself with my surroundings. My nerves settle down at the sight of Sam's framed pictures on the nightstand – Xander's bedroom.   
  
We're on the floor next to his bed and Xander is on top of me, pinning me down on the rough floor.   
  
"How… what…?"  
  
He loosens his tight grip on my arms and shakes his head wearily. "You've gone psycho all of a sudden."  
  
"I…"  
  
What's she doing there? Her green eyes gleam with a great sense of betrayal and hatred. Her arms are crossed as usual but with the stiffness of a woman who has endured eternal suffering. I hurt her. I hurt her badly.   
  
My body begins to shake with tremors of guilt and shame and my soul burns inside me like a coal fire threatening to flare out of control. I'm desperate for the sweet release of escape. I bang and buck and scream; out, out, OUT! Get the bloody thing out of me!   
  
"Spike, stop!" The hands holding me down tighten in a desperate attempt to keep me in place. "Get a grip!"  
  
Tiny ants crawl all over my skin sending me to a blank state of madness. I can't stop banging my head against the floor. I want it to stop. This  _feeling_  that's eating me alive. I want it to just bleeding stop!  
  
All of a sudden, I find myself buried in a warm embrace with soft spoken nonsense whispered in my ears. The shock of being held seems to have calmed down every other raging sense in my body. I blink at the woman standing by the door with my nose buried in Harris' shoulder.   
  
"That ought to do it," Xander says, pushing me away gently. He tries to hold my gaze with his own unsuccessfully. "What the hell are you looking at?"  
  
"Buffy?"  
  
He looks at the door then back at me. "Don't start freaking me out. There's no one there."  
  
"D-don't you see her?"  
  
He looks at the door again. "Spike, for the last time, there's no one there."   
  
"But, Buffy…"  
  
"… is sound asleep at her house. It's too late even for a slayer." He gets up on his feet and stretches his arms, cracking a couple of knots in his back. "Now go back to bed, and please try to dial down the crazy until I leave for work."  
  
Buffy is no longer standing at the door. That helps me get back to bed next to one pissed off Harris. I give him my back, hiding my face in humiliation. It's one thing to lose control in front of Buffy, but to do it in front of King of Loserville is beyond mortifying. I bite my lip, trying my hardest not to tremble or hiss in shock, staring right into Buffy's terrified eyes as she lies next to me with her naked and bruised body.   
  
I don't want the wanker calling me crazy again.   
  
  
  
  


~*~*~*~*~

  
  
  
  
  
I wake up to the unsettling feeling of someone staring at me.  _No, no, no!_  Is she back? Is she crying again? I force my brain cells to recharge their sanity. It wasn't Buffy last night. Never her. It was  _it_. From beneath you,  _it_  devours. The bloody bugger out to get me again. I must keep calm, don't want loser Harris mocking me again.   
  
The sense of being watched starts getting on my wick. I've had this feeling almost every day when Dru and I were together. While it was endearing then, it's nothing but creepy now.   
  
I open my eyes to a pair of green ones that don't belong to Buffy. For one thing, these eyes are staring intensely at me from behind glasses. I jump back until my back hits the headboard. "Bollocks!"  
  
Maggie adjusts her glasses and narrows her eyes at me. "You know, looking at you up close you do look a little too pale."  
  
My nerves start to calm down, but my confusion remains extreme. "What?"  
  
"Would you mind if I opened the windows a bit or do you combust into flames with the faintest light?"   
  
Suddenly, sunlight is all over the place.  
  
"What the hell…?" I bury myself under the covers, pulling my leg in when I feel my toes starting to grill.   
  
"Oh. Sorry." I hear the sound of the blinds being shut but am too hesitant to venture a peek. "I just needed to see for myself."  
  
"See what?" my voice comes out a bit muffled under the covers.   
  
"If you were a vampire."  
  
I blink.   
  
Sitting up straight, I feel the covers sliding down my body. "A what?"  
  
Maggie plants her hands on her hips. "Mr. Harris told me that you're a vampire. He also showed me the bags of animals' blood in the fridge."  
  
I stare at her, speechless.   
  
She starts tapping on her temple, a thoughtful expression on her face. "What types of food do you make using blood or do you just drink it?"  
  
I stare at her some more and then give myself an affirmative nod. "I need a break."  
  
Flinging the covers off of me and snatching my black shirt, I storm out of Harris' bedroom and into his son's room. I shut the door with force behind me and grin at Harris Junior. "Don't mind me hanging about, do you?"  
  
The boy is too occupied with lining up his tiny cars by colors to answer me.   
  
"Right. You're deaf," I mutter, putting on my shirt. Dropping on the large car-bed, I bring my arms under my head and stare up at the blue ceiling. So, Harris told Nanny Fine about me. I'm not sure how to take this. Those who go bump in the night have always been the Scoobies' dirty little secret. Did the rules change now that I have a soul? Not that Harris cares one way or another. He still sees me as a monster. The only reason I'm allowed in his home is the chip in my head; or else he won't risk having me anywhere near his precious son.   
  
I lift myself on my elbows and stare at Sam lining up his itty bitty green cars in perfect straight rows. He does a good job making sure no car is ahead of the other. Must be nice having a quiet boy like that. Harris has always been a lucky sod.   
  
I start wandering around the room; car-themed blue wallpaper, a vibrant orange bookshelf filled with ABC cubes and cars – little wheels are dominating the place – and children's books about cartoon characters, numbers, and of course, cars. On top of an orange study-desk – like a three-year old would need one – lie all sorts of toy cars and a long-nosed cowboy doll along with a big-chinned astronaut.   
  
No wonder this boy is one spoiled brat. Harris obviously decorated his dream boy-room, one that he wished he could have had when he was a sprog. Not that he's grown out of his childish desires. He has the mental capacity of a five year old.   
  
I stop by the large closet with number three stickers covering every inch of it. The bright, colorful shirts and jammies inside almost blind me. Does this kid have any shirt that doesn't have a picture of a cartoon character on it? Poor little nipper. He's doomed to relive his loser of a father's dateless school-years. He won't even have a Slayer chum to save his sorry arse whenever he'll run into bullies or Cordelia-like cheerleaders.   
  
A sudden voice sings a tune that sends chills down my spine. My brows furrow as the voice gets louder and clearer. I can feel my grip on the closet knob tightening to the point of breaking it. Sodding hell!   
  
_… I heard a maid singing in the valley below…_  
  
A strange sensation takes over me, and I drown, deep, deep into a sea of obliviousness. My vision is nothing but a hazy dark color surrounded by dancing shadows that spin and spin and spin…   
  
_… O do not leave me  
How could you use a poor maiden so?... _  
  
I snap awake by the piercing of a loud scream. Sam struggles to get out of my iron grip on his arms. I hastily let go of him and take a step back, unsure what has just happened.   
  
Maggie dashes into the room and shakes her head at the brand new violent Sam tantrum. "Oh, did you try playing with him?" she asks with a knowing headshake. "He hates anyone touching his toys."  
  
She tries calming the boy down fruitlessly, but my gaze is glued on the boy's neck where the nonexistent bite marks could have been.   
  
  
  


~*~*~*~*~

  
  
  
  
  
Dinner time at the Harris flat; father feeding his son chicken nuggets again while I watch from my place on the couch. Instead of listing tomorrow's routine, Sam is counting numbers with all the glee of a robot. He's pacing around in circles and thrusting his hand in the air like an eager teacher in a classroom. He hasn't said a word about the afternoon incident to Daddy Dearest. If Xander knew I tried to nip on his daft kid, it's gonna be me against his broken baseball bat.   
  
I reluctantly pull myself up and pad on bare feet to the kitchen area. My dreams of being cured are shattered when that bloody song rung in my ears earlier today. Seems that it isn't the school basement making me crackers after all. There has to be a way to stop this. I can't lose control of myself every time  _it_  decides to have me in its pocket.   
  
I just notice the number-shaped magnets on the fridge. Those bloody numbers are everywhere. I never took Harris for one those elitist parents. Seemed more of a carefree, fun dad than one who cared about education and reinforced its importance in every possible way.  
  
"Ouch! Ouch!"  
  
I turn around and then roll my eyes; the spoiled brat is making a fuss over the silliest things. This time it's a couple of ketchup stains on his pajamas.   
  
"It's okay, Sammy," Xander says in a calm voice, wiping off the ketchup with some tissues. "Eat your food first."  
  
Sam prefers to freak out. "Ouch! Ouch!"  
  
I could use some beer right now, but Harris has a rule about having any alcoholic beverages in the house. I grab a bag of blood and drink from it instead of pouring it into a mug, watching the little monster flapping his hands and screaming at the top of his lungs. Tears start streaming down his face; one would think those mild stains are tearing holes into his pajamas and burning his skin.   
  
Xander gives up after realizing that the red stain won't wipe off the white head of the sailor duck on Sam's pajamas and slaps the dirty tissues on the kitchen bar. He heads straight to his son's room only to come out a few seconds later with a haunted expression on his face.   
  
If my heart could beat it would have stopped at the moment. He  _knows_. "What?"  
  
"Shi… I mean, God! I haven't washed the other ones."  
  
Looks like I'm in the clear for now. "What other ones?"  
  
"He likes wearing these Donald Duck PJs every night, so I bought him another identical pair, but they’re also dirty."  
  
I stare at him with my lips unable to produce words. His face looks like he’s seen a ghost and it’s all over a pair of pajamas? Says the vampire who almost fainted thinking he was busted just because Xander walked into the nearly crime scene.  
  
"It's just a little stain, Sammy." Xander rushes to his son and resumes wiping the ketchup with a bunch of new clean tissues. Nothing he does stops the boy from wailing at full volume.   
  
Xander jumps to his feet, rubbing his unruly shaggy hair with both hands into an even unrulier state. Can't blame him for losing his marbles; I'm about to pour the blood in this bag into my ears.  
  
Suddenly, an invisible light bulb springs to life above his head. "I'll wash the other pair right now!"   
  
"Tell me you're not serious!" I exclaim incredulously.   
  
Xander groans in frustration and ends up shoving me against the wall. Ironically, he receives a few blood stains on his white shirt.   
  
"Don't make this any worse than it already is!"   
  
" _I'm_  making it worse? He's just a tot. I've seen his closet, lots of unworn jammies in there."  
  
The strong grip tightens on my shirt and Xander's eyes shoot fire. "What the hell were you doing in his room?"  
  
"First off, no cursing in front of children. Second, I get bored. Trapped in this  _hellhole_ with nothing to do."  
  
I get my head smacked against the wall for my trouble.   
  
"Spike… just… damnit!"  
  
Harris starts striding to the bathroom.   
  
"Nice comeback. Very witty," I yell after him, rubbing the back of my sore head.   
  
I don't know what I'm afraid of. I wish Harris knew about this afternoon. A stake to the heart is far more merciful than the crap I'm going through. Stuck in a flat with an exploding bomb and a moody parent. One more tired glance at the howling buster before I start dragging my feet to the bedroom.  
  
I stop midway, hearing a strange sound drifting from the bathroom. Either the song is back again or I'm starting to hallucinate. I stand next to the bathroom door, and the faint sound of soft crying grows slightly louder, now mixed with the grinding noise of the washing machine.   
  
For some reason, all the anger and annoyance that has been boiling inside of me seems so… childish.   
  
I scratch my temple awkwardly and then hide my wimp arse in the bedroom. Pretending to be asleep sounds so appealing right now.   
  
  
  
  
  


~*~*~*~*~

  
  
  
  
  
  
The stupid duck that was on the boy's pajamas last night is screeching nonsense on the TV. My eyes however are on Sam pacing around the room in circles, as always counting the numbers again – his version of a far-out nerdy hobby. While my ears are listening to the angry duck and my eyes are looking at Sam, my mind is somewhere else entirely.   
  
The hallucinations, the song and losing control; there has to be a way to stop it all. I'm beginning to get really brassed off with all the stares and the whispers. Whenever I walk out of the bedroom, Xander will lower his voice when he's on the telephone and I'll know he's talking about me. But the worst of all are those bloody headshakes and the staring whenever I space out.   
  
I take a swallow of my mug of blood and lower the volume of the TV. Bloody Harris. Smirking down at me from his high horse of normality. He should take one look at his little rug monkey before judging other people for being insane.   
  
Speaking of the devil…  
  
"What after ninety nine?"  
  
I snap out of my thoughts and gaze at Sam's impassive face. "What?"  
  
"What after ninety nine?"  
  
"Uh… a hundred?"  
  
"After that?"  
  
"A hundred and one."  
  
Sam nods and then starts walking in circles again. "A hundred, a hundred and one, a hundred and two, a hundred and three, a hundred and four…"   
  
That boy is a hundred percent round the twist.   
  
Oh,  _bleeding hell!_  I jump off the couch and glare down at the stains of blood in my shirt. I turn my gleaming eyes to the cackling boy pointing at me – you weren't laughing when it happened to you last night. Cursing under my breath, I place the mug on the table and make my way to the bathroom.   
  
"I can wash it for you, Mr. Spike," Maggie says from the kitchen where she's washing the dishes.   
  
"No, been dreading using that thing all my life. Think it's time to learn."  
  
"I can't believe you never used the washing machine."  
  
"Had my own minions doing it for me." I walk into the spotless bathroom with a nice odor wafting from a fresh summer lemon scented candle. Must be nice having your own nanny cleaning the loo every sodding day.   
  
"But you haven't had minions for three years."  
  
"I had a system," I yell back, scratching my head at the sight of the complicated machine. "Much easier than this one."  
  
I have no idea what to do. I do know there should be some soap involved. I start opening the drawers searching for the right type of soap, but there's no soap in the lower drawers. Just a cluster of folded towels and bathrobes.   
  
I open the top drawer and a small pink box falls on top of my head. My eyes grow wide with shock at the pink colored boxes lined up next to each other inside the drawer.   
  
_Tampons?!!_  
  
I recognize them from my time with Buffy last year. I grab the only blue box among the sea of pink and read, "Tampox Pearl, amazingly clean protection." I could swear Maggie mentioned that Harris never had a bird over. I don't suppose all those are for Maggie. The way he fusses about his precious boy, I don't doubt he even shops for the nanny.   
  
Still, why buy all these boxes for a woman who only spends five mornings a week with his son? I return the blue box and the pink one on the floor to the drawer. Better not have the wanker get his knickers in a twist thinking I was snooping in the bathroom.   
  
"Maggie! Need some help here!"  
  
She walks in with a smug grin. "Told you so."  
  
I take off my shirt and hand it to her. "Yeah, don't get all jolly over this."  
  
  
  
  


~*~*~*~*~

  
  
  
  
  
"Are we doomed to watch the dog with the southern accent burn his bum on the oven for eternity?" Sprawled on the couch, I dip a potato chip in a bowl of blood and pop it into my mouth. On the screen, the bloody dog starts flying around the kitchen with his bum shooting smoke. If I hear his sodding laugh one more time, I'll stake myself on Sam's giant Number Three clothes holder.   
  
"He's got a Midwest accent," Xander corrects absentmindedly. He has his construction site maps lined up on the coffee table and is holding a big yellow ruler and drawing a line with a pencil. "Besides, Sam loves this movie."   
  
I gaze spitefully at the kid in question walking around in circles and wittering non-stop about numbers. "He's not even watching it."   
  
Xander manages to throw me a swift glance while drawing another line on the map. "He'll freak out if we change it."  
  
"So what?" I exclaim, sitting upright on the couch. "Can't you see that you've created one rotten spoiled ticking bomb who always goes off the second he doesn't get his way?"   
  
Xander pretends he's too observed in his work to hear me, but I can see the stiffness in his jaw. He knows I'm right and yet he's doing nothing about it. I could care less how he raises his brat, but if I'm going to stay here I don't see why I need to put up with it.   
  
One more daft laugh from the screen and I can't take it anymore. I snatch the remote from the table and switch from video to TV; the blissful sound of a CNN reporter drifts into my ears like a heartrending ballad.   
  
Sam stops walking abruptly. Sound the alarm! "Moon! Moon!"  
  
Xander curses under his breath and slaps his hands on his ears. "Put Moon back, Spike!"  
  
With a childish glint in my soul, I hide the remote behind me. "Make me."  
  
"Spike, I've got to finish this before tomorrow. I don't have time for your shi…  _shirt!_ "  
  
"You've got to learn how to discipline him."  
  
Through the deafening screams and wails of his son, Xander Harris rises to his mighty feet with fire shooting from his beady eyes. "Spike! This is my house, you do what I say."  
  
"Don't want to stay a minute in your sodding home. But since I have no choice, I will at least teach you a thing or two about parenting."   
  
Xander releases a high-pitched growl and pounces at me only to end up smacking his head against the couch. Droopy Boy forgot he's dealing with a vampire. So, the whole flat turns into a loud racket with two grownups running around like cat and mouse and a three year old screaming his lungs out and banging his head on the floor.   
  
Eventually, Xander drops to his knees, breathing heavily, and holds up a hand that resembles a white flag. "Spike, please, just… put the freaking movie back on."  
  
I fold my arms across my chest and smirk. "And why would I wanna do that?"  
  
He gives an incredulous nod at the wailing boy.   
  
I shrug. "Don't mind it."   
  
"Spike…" Helpless sadness seeps into his eyes and his shoulders slump in defeat. He looks a few years older than his real age as he struggles beneath the weight of what he's going to say. "Sam is not a regular kid."  
  
I scoff. "Sure, he's special."  
  
Xander doesn't look a speck happy about it when he admits, "He is."   
  
"What do you mean? He's not a demon, is he?"  
  
"No. He's… he's just different."  
  
"Different how exactly?"  
  
"He's not your typical kind of kid."  
  
"I got that, Harris. What is he?"  
  
With a heavy sigh, Xander looks at his agitated son running around the room throwing and kicking anything at sight. "Sam is… he's autistic."   
  
"And that would be?"  
  
Xander's sadness dissolves into a look of genuine surprise. "You don't know what autism is?"  
  
I shake my head simply.   
  
"The term autism was introduced since before I was born."  
  
"You say that like you're over sixty. You're only two decades old."  
  
He's about to explain when Sam raises the volume of his yowls even higher. Wincing, he crawls toward him, grasps his flailing arms and holds them down, and then he pulls his resisting son into a tight hug. The scene looks so familiar that my chest tightens in disgust. Sam struggles in his father's embrace for a while as Xander whispers comforting words into his ears.   
  
My disgust grows when Sam's loud wailing turns into soft hiccups and he hangs limply in his father's embrace.   
  
"Seriously, you never heard of it? Even those who live under a rock have an idea of it from  _Rain Man_."  
  
Too engrossed with the sight before me, I barely notice Harris' stare waiting for my answer to whatever he just said.   
  
"What?" I snap in annoyance, finding myself more interested in the sniffling child in Xander's arms than what his father is talking about.   
  
"The Tom Cruise movie?"  
  
"Don't talk to me about that wannabe vampire."  
  
He rolls his eyes at me. "You do realize he was just acting, right?"  
  
Sam looks at me with tearful eyes. "Why, Spike?"  
  
I just stare at him. At that moment, he looks normal, like I did two nights ago after receiving that same hug. The magical powers of the Xander embrace. Like being smothered by a bloody snuggling bear.   
  
I turn my attention from the boy to his father. "So, what is this auti… whatever it is your kid has?"  
  
"It's a disorder. Look, I've got a lot of work to do. There's a reason why Sam is the way he is."   
  
My lips curl lip in a show of repulsion. "A nutcase."  
  
"You're one to talk." Xander jumps to his feet and snatches the remote control from my meek hand. He changes the TV back into video mode and just as the dense dog snaps into the screen, Sam springs to his feet and starts walking in circles.  
  
"At least I don't go having tantrums over nothing," I retort. At his look, I add touchily, "There's a reason why it happens."  
  
"Him, too," he replies dryly.   
  
We stare at each other as the atmosphere around us thickens through the silly Christmas songs and Sam babbling to himself about my "misbehavior." I break the ice by marching to fetch my coat and slipping it on.   
  
I hear him sigh and ask tiredly, "Where are you going?"  
  
"I'm not your bloody kid," I answer coolly. "I can go wherever I want and I don't care if you're going to tattle on me to Buffy."   
  
He doesn't try to stop me as I walk out of the flat and slam the door shut behind me.   
  
  
  


~*~*~*~*~

 


	3. Chapter 3

  
  
  


~*~*~*~*~

  
  
  


**Chapter Three**

  
  
  
Full night has descended a few hours ago and moonlight cast harsh black shadows on tombstones and crypts in the gray-lit cemetery grounds. I move assertively through the darkness, constantly scanning the cemetery for anything to dust. There's a thirst growing inside me, yearning for the thrill of driving a stake through someone's heart and feeling the clouds of dust combusting against my face.   
  
It's the boiling anger that soars and conquers every inch of me as I bathe in its power. My vision gets clearer as my eyes turn monstrous, but all I see are images of bloody Harris making me his nut case… that sodding git! Acting like he's better than me. Some twenty-something  _kid_  playing nurse to the lunatics he's housing.   
  
 _Bollocks!_  I kick the grass and drive my fingers between the strands of my gelled hair, letting out an embarrassed growl.   
  
"Spike?"  
  
Every sense in my body freezes at the sound of her voice. My embarrassment intensifies, and I quickly lower my hands to my sides and slip into my human features. My attempt at trying to appear casual fails miserably when our eyes meet. There she is, looking like she always did; ready to fight with her golden hair tied up in a tight ponytail and that sharp stake in her hand.   
  
The atmosphere thickens with discomfort as she tries to find the right words to say. The sight of me is obviously a shock. I wasn't supposed to fly out of the cuckoo's nest. She'd have preferred I'd rot in there until I start cutting off my own testicles.   
  
"What… what are you doing here?"  
  
"Same thing you're doing."   
  
"Xander didn't… I told him to…"  
  
"Guard the crazy vampire," I finish for her dryly.   
  
She closes her eyes tiredly and pulls a lock that has fallen behind her ear. "Spike, I'm…"  
  
"No need for explanations, _Slayer_."  
  
She winces. I haven't called her that in a long time.   
  
I walk around the tombstone separating us and look directly at her face with more confidence now. In her eyes our past relationship is reflected clearly. Every destructive little detail; scratching my knee against the oriental rug in my crypt while burying myself deep into her, my nose digging into her blonde hair while taking her from behind on the balcony at the Bronze, draping her naked body onto a table at the Magic Box before we broke it in half. Physical and brutal, it's always been that way; exciting, exhilarating, it makes me feel… really…  
  
Tired.   
  
Extremely tired. The sight of her still thrills me, her scent sends chills down my spine and thoughts of shagging her get my motors revving, but it exhausts the sodding hell out of me.   
  
The lines of weariness are obviously apparent in my face, causing Buffy to look away, her finger feeling the edge of her sharpened stake. "So, how's… you know?"  
  
"Thought you get your scoop from Xander."   
  
She gives me a look. "Touché."  
  
The wind starts blowing and ruffles the locks that have fallen on the sides of her face. How beautiful she looks wearing her usual resolved expression. There's something in there, though; a look she usually reserved for one of her loved ones, never for me. Until now.   
  
My boot is beginning to turn white due to all the shuffling in the dirt. "Look, you don't have to worry about me. I can take care of myself."  
  
"Spike…"  
  
"You don't have to be sensitive and caring on my account. It doesn't suit you."  
  
She brushes those stray locks back, only to have them fall on her face again. "Your stay at Xander's is temporary. Once you stop talking to invisible people…"  
  
"Then what?"  
  
"You can… you can do whatever you want."  
  
I purse my lips, taking a few steps forward until I'm looking down at her. "I can do whatever I want now. I don't need your pampering."  
  
"I don't pamper. I never pamper. You can ask Dawn."  
  
"Then it's out of pity."  
  
"You know it's not." I can feel her heavy sigh on my chin, so hot it sends shivers down to my hardening manhood. "Spike, you have to understand. I'm the Slayer. I need to protect the world from… well…"  
  
"Me," I spit out, walking away from her when it becomes impossible to contain myself. I stop near a tombstone and try my best to hide my shame from her eyes.   
  
"Well, yeah, there's something out there controlling you in a way. I need to stop it. Until then you have to stay at Xander's."  
  
"Nothing is controlling me," I protest, turning around only to notice her eyes widening at the sight of something behind me. A heavy load falls on top of me and sends me crashing to the ground. I elbow the tubby vampire in the chin and then kick him in the bollocks. I jump to my feet and swiftly run a stake through his heart, earning my craved dose of exploding dust.   
  
I turn my attention to Buffy leaping up into a roundhouse kick. She's obviously on top of things. Usually that doesn't stop me from lending my unneeded help, but right now my feet are frozen in place and my eyes are locked on the action. I watch her dancing around the three vampires, showering them with kicks and punches.   
  
She spins and kicks.  
  
Spins and kicks.  
  
Kicks.   
  
Kicks.  
  
Kicks.  
  
The taste of blood in my mouth is pure and strong, empowering me in a way I haven't felt in what feels like a lifetime. I lick what's left on my lips with the thirst of a starved animal.   
  
I blink out of the addictive sensation and stare at the red brick walls surrounding me with astonishment. That dumpster, those broken pieces of wood, I don't remember being in an alley – looking down, my heart drops – I certainly don't remember seeing this woman.   
  
No heartbeat. No breathing. But the bite marks are as clear as the foreign blood I taste in my mouth.   
  
"You did it." She walks toward me from the shadows of the dark alley. Her hair is loose curls falling on her shoulders and her awkward gaze has dissolved into one of aversion and ridicule. "You think the soul turned you into a better man. But you're still a monster."  
  
"You're not Buffy," I say in a low voice stripped out of confidence.   
  
"Oh, I am Buffy. I'm everybody you've ever hurt."  
  
Those blond curls darken into a full head of beautiful raven hair. Drusilla brushes her black locks back with a fair hand revealing a pair of dark blue eyes that are filled with revulsion. Black melts back into yellow and Harmony's tearful eyes regard me with pain and confusion. The body before me shifts to the Slayer I killed in Japan and then to the other one I killed in New York. One victim after another, all mine.   
  
Eventually, the face of my newest kill smirks down at me – I realize I've sunk to the ground, shaking and whimpering. She leans down and whispers in my ear, "You will always be a monster."   
  
  
  
  


~*~*~*~*~

  
  
  
  
  
Vague memories painted on a stretched blank canvas with a downturned brush, dripping black on the important details. Globs of black ink splash on every key element, leaving messy smudges and blurring the faces of the people walking by. So much happens but gets forgotten between the mass of ambiguous memories, and it all ends with tragedy.   
  
Last thing I remember was talking to Buffy in the cemetery. We fought as usual. I think we did. I don't remember exactly what it was about. But there's one thing I know for sure; I shouldn't have come back to the asylum.  
  
The flat is dimly dark with the moonlight streaming in through the opened windows. Harris Junior's wishes must be granted as usual. I shouldn't have come here. I don't remember why I shouldn't. But I know that I had stormed out of here, wanting nothing to do with the crazy lot running this place.   
  
The problem is, I've got nowhere else to go.   
  
Glancing at the clock on the wall, I can see that it's only a couple of hours 'til sunrise. I don't have enough time to find another place to be. Better suck it up and get some kip before Sam decides to make me his trampoline again. If I were human, I'd be supporting a broken ribcage right now.  _"When Mr. Sun is up, everybody wakes up,"_  his loud raspy voice is still ringing in my ear.   
  
I flinch when the bedroom door creaks as I open it. Dropping on my knees instantly, I look up at Harris, relieved to see him still drooling and snoring. On hands and knees, I make my way to the bed as quietly and slowly as possible, but the peculiar gust of wind that flows past me snaps the bedroom door shut with a bang.   
  
Xander jolts up. "Spike?"  
  
Perfect. Who keeps the window open on a chilly night like this?  
  
He blinks down at me for a second before an annoying smirk lifts the corner of his lips. "Came crawling back, literally."   
  
I jump to my feet and stuff my hands in my pockets. "Yeah, well…"  
  
The sudden quick action does something to me. Flashbacks. Several of them appearing and disappearing fast, ending with a corpse of a blonde woman in a dark alley.   
  
"Had another tantrum?" Xander's sarcastic voice distracts me from the frightening image.   
  
"You could say that," I say absentmindedly, the dead woman still fresh in my mind.   
  
"I better call Buffy."  
  
I stiffen. "Why?"  
  
He fumbles for the phone on the nightstand. "To tell her you're back. She called me earlier, gave me an earful about responsibility and proper vamp-sitting…" He pauses when he notices my diverted stare. His features soften into a gentle half-smile. "She was worried about you."  
  
"Yeah?" I'm half-listening to him because my ears, eyes and thoughts are all preoccupied with a variety of flashing images; craned necks, fangs sinking into flesh, corpses and a shovel.   
  
"Are you okay?"  
  
I blink out of it all and meet Xander's worried gaze. Swallowing thickly, I try to form words but my whole body feels paralyzed.   
  
"Spike?" He puts the phone down without dialing Buffy's number. His hazel eyes are filled with anxiety.   
  
I lower my gaze to my boots. "You… you should keep an eye on me. That's what she said."  
  
"Seen any ghosts out there?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
He stares at me for a while before making room in bed. "Get in here."  
  
I kick off my boots and take off my coat, and then crawl into the covers with my clothes still on. My head hurts and my body aches, all I want to do is lie down and fall into a deep sleep. But a scary poisonous thought creeps into my mind, sending my body into a fit of tremors.   
  
"You're shaking…"   
  
A warm hand holds my arm in a strong grip, spreading warmth throughout my limbs.   
  
"Don't. I'm not your autistic kid."   
  
The hand freezes on my arm. "Right."  
  
The warmth vanishes instantly, leaving the spot bare and cold, just like my insides as I realize that the images of the dead people attacking my mind are forgotten  _memories_. Memories that have happened.   
  
  
  
  


~*~*~*~*~

  
  
  
  
  
It's impossible. The more I think about it, the more assured I become. There's no way those images are of victims I have killed.  _Chip_ , remember? That small device implanted in my head? The one that sends soaring electric shocks of sodding pain all over my brain if I as much as think of pinching anyone? If I'd killed those people, my head would have been a fried potato by now.  
  
Eyes on the dartboard hanging on the wall, I throw a dart and it lands inside the double ring. Sam interrupts his usual circular strolls in the living room to point and laugh at me. I fight the temptation to switch to my vampire face and scare him shitless – not while his father is mucking around in the kitchen that's  _opened to the living room_.   
  
I turn my gaze to the dartboard, squaring my shoulders and trying to focus. I plant my feet firmly on the floor, resting most of my weight on my right foot. I hold up the dart, raising the tip up slightly, and then launch it smoothly forward. This time it lands in the red part of the bullseye.  
  
Sam squeals and jumps in excitement. "Spike did it!"  
  
I flash him a surprised smile, not used to him expressing any kind of emotion other than violent tantrums. But then he goes back to walking in circles and continues counting from nine hundred and forty-six and on.   
  
The pleasant smell of bacon and eggs floats into my nostrils – never took Harris for a decent cook. Someone like him strikes you as a junk food junkie, but I have to admit he is chock full of surprises. First of all, he manages to raise and provide for a child on his own, not to mention a child who's got a damaged brain.   
  
I glance one more time at the trotting gobshite thrusting his hand up in the air while talking in his flat, robot-like pitch of voice. I honestly don't know how Xander stands it. I don't even know how he managed to get the blinds shut in the living room. Probably because Sam woke up in a very good mood today. I haven't heard a single whine since I realized that no amount of tossing and turning can guarantee a good morning sleep.  
  
The dart in my hand drops to the floor as thoughts about last night come rushing back. I pull out a chair and drop my bum on it, allowing my thoughts to take me away from the delicious smells and Sam's yapping. I just can't shake the feeling that I had something to do with those corpses. I don't think I killed them. It's not possible with the chip in my head. Could it be that it has stopped working? Still, if I'd have killed those people, I'd have known about it. I haven't murdered anyone for more than three years now, I'm sure I'd remember human blood in my mouth.   
  
Human blood in my mouth… Buffy's soft blonde curls… Harmony's tears… a woman's body at my feet…   
  
"What after nine hundred and ninety-nine?" Sam's face pops before me, a mini-copy of his father's except for his dimpled chin.   
  
I stare at him for a second before answering, "One thousand."  
  
"One thousand and one." He doesn't bugger off like last time. Instead, he just looks at me expectantly.   
  
"What?"   
  
"Spike say."  
  
I feel myself growing more annoyed than confused. " _What_?"  
  
"It's your turn," Xander translates as he walks toward us with two plates of bacon and eggs.   
  
Sam's wide brown eyes are still on me, anticipating my answer, so I offer, "Uh… one thousand and two?"  
  
He nods. "Yes! One thousand and three."  
  
I stare at him for a moment. "One thousand and four."  
  
"One thousand and five."  
  
I throw a helpless look at Xander, who is placing the plates on the dining table. "How long will this go on?"  
  
He smirks. "Until  _he_  gets bored."  
  
I've seen the way this kid count. He  _never_  gets bored. "Blo… blooming hell."  
  
Xander laughs while walking back to the kitchen area. "Yeah, that's better."  
  
Lookie there, he'd made an omelette! A good looking one at that, neatly folded and glistening with butter and oil. Obviously I wasn't included in the breakfast meal, still Mr. Unwanted Guest.  
  
Sam pulls on my arm and there comes the first dose of whining for the day, "What after one thousand and five?"  
  
I push the kid away, but like an annoying fly he comes back and clutches my arm again. With a bored sigh, I seize the twonk's shoulders and look him in the eyes. "How about we play another game? I'm the cat and you're the mouse. You hide in your room or the cat will eat you."  
  
Sam's eyes seem to be looking far away at nothing in particular. "No. Spike man. Sammy boy."  
  
"Yes, but in the game, Spike cat and Sammy mouse." Bloody hell, just kill me now!  
  
"No!" His tone grows more plaintive and he starts flapping his hands. "Sammy boy. Sammy not mouse!"  
  
"I know, but in the game…"  
  
"Don't even try it, Spike." Xander arrives with a glass of water and another of orange juice. "Sam has no imagination."  
  
"Don't be silly. All kids have a wild imagination."  
  
"Not Sam. He doesn't get pretense." Placing the glasses on the table, Xander claps his hands. "All right-y. Time for breakfast."  
  
Sam pouts. "Sammy want nummy."  
  
Xander shakes his head. "No nummy when it's time for breakfast-y."   
  
Sam stomps his foot. "Sammy want nummy."   
  
Xander shakes his finger this time. "No."  
  
Sam runs toward the kitchen with his father trailing after him. "I said no nummy!"  
  
  
 _"O don't deceive me. O never leave me."_  
  
  
"Spike? What the hell?"  
  
A broken chair. I stare at the broken chair before me in confusion before a hand comes out of nowhere grabbing my arm and spinning me around to meet a pair of angry eyes.  
  
"What the hell were you thinking?" Xander snaps in my face.  
  
  
 _"How could you use a poor maiden so?"_  
  
  
I can feel it this time. I'm slipping. I try to fight it. It's no use. I'm blacking out and I can't do a bloody thing about it. Everything is pitch black and time fleets, and then… a whiny voice. A tiny hand grasping my arm. Whiny voice growing louder.  
  
"What after one thousand and five? What after one thousand and fiiiiive?"  
  
My head feels light and dizzy, and my vision travels from the ceiling to the broken table, to the shreds of broken glass on the orange juice stained carpet, landing on Sam's exasperated face.  
  
The darkness attacks me again, but then…   
  
"What after one thousand and fiiiiive?" Sam is pulling on my arm and jumping with aggravation, his annoying voice rises into an excruciating limit.   
  
"Sammy, come here…" Xander is holding the phone to his ear and dialing a number, blood is streaming from his nose. "Hello, Buffy? …"  
  
I'm slipping again, and my vision turns black, and my senses shut down…   
  
"What after one thousand and fiiiiive?"  
  
"Shut your bloody gob…" I squeeze my eyes shut and rub at my throbbing forehead.   
  
"What after one thousand and fiiiiiiiive!"  
  
"One thousand and six, you wanker!" Glaring down at the boy, my vision clears and all I see is the tiny face of mini-Harris.   
  
He stops jumping at once and grins up at me. "One thousand and seven."   
  
"One thousand and eight."  
  
"One thousand and nine."  
  
"One thousand and ten." It's over. I can feel it. There's nothing trying to pull me into the darkness. "It's gone," I whisper, overjoyed at the realization.   
  
"One thousand and eleven," Sam says, mistaking my happy beam for enjoying his little counting game.   
  
"One thousand and twelve," I exclaim with delight. Without a thought, I scoop the kid into a hug. He screams in protest. I let go of him.   
  
Xander steps between us and stares me down. "Buffy is on her way."   
  
The mess I made on his nose is glaring red. I swallow a thick lump and lower my gaze to my bare feet.   
  
  


~*~*~*~*~

  
  
  
  
Buffy rubs her heavy-lidded eyes and brushes back her uncombed hair. She leans back against the couch to rest her head for a second, sparing one more embarrassed glance down at her rumpled pajamas which she's still trying to hide under her long coat. Those who don't know her would assume she's escaped some mental institution in the middle of the afternoon, but for a Slayer who stayed up all night keeping the streets clean from those who lurk in the shadows, she's an equivalent of someone clubbing all night long.   
  
A heavy sigh builds up in her shoulders before being released, followed with Buffy leaning closer with her elbows on her knees. She stares at Xander with a look that promised torture. "You sounded the alarm because Spike hears a song?"   
  
He points at the pack of ice on his broken nose. "Decisive evidence of assault!"  
  
Buffy blinks away what's left of the sleep in her eyes and focuses on the damage to her friend's face. "Oh."  
  
"Besides, if you take a look at the apartment you'll realize that's  _not_  why I called you."  
  
"Second oh." She does take a look at the wrecked table and chair, shattered glass and stained carpet. She rubs on her eyes again in one last desperate attempt to chase sleep away. "So, what's this song you hear?"  
  
They look up at me from where they're sitting on the couch. I have been standing in the same spot since the phone call was made. I can't bring myself to sit down after the harm I caused, all because…  
  
Memory takes me back to fancy wallpapered walls decorated with a variety of gold framed pictures. The fire flickers in the old fashioned fireplace, sending waves of warmth throughout the room. Mother's soft hands caress my hair as I laid my head on her knees, listening to her tender voice singing that bloody song…  
  
"Spike!"  
  
With a headshake and a great deal of effort, I focus all my attention on Buffy.   
  
"So?"   
  
Her impatience adds to my nerves, so I force a hard lump in my throat down, and stuff my hands in my pockets. "An old folk ditty. It's called "Early One Morning."  
  
"And when you hear it you get violent."  
  
"I black out," I protest. One guilty glance at Xander's furious face, and I amend, "But, yeah, I guess I do."  
  
"That doesn't make sense," what she says gets lost in the middle of a big yawn. She starts rubbing her eyes with the heel of her hand, so hard she almost pushes them to the back of her head. "You still have the chip in your head, right?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
"And you felt no pain?"  
  
"Not a single zap."   
  
"Does that mean it stopped working?"  
  
"I don't know."  
  
"Maybe we should test it. Xander?"  
  
Harris jumps to his feet and shakes the ice bag in her face. "Broken nose!"  
  
"We just want to make sure." She undoes her loose ponytail and gathers her messy hair back into a tighter hold. "You know Spike's chip doesn't work on me anymore."  
  
Once Buffy sets her mind on something, no one can convince her otherwise. I have last year to prove it. Xander is forced to relent with a reluctant nod, and then shoots me his best glare. "But not the nose!"  
  
"He's just gonna give you a pinch," Buffy says.  
  
Well, I get a chance to hit the wanker, better make the best use of it. I punch him on the mouth. That's met with piercing shots of excruciating pain doing a number on my poor brain.   
  
"Ouch!" mutual screams of agony fly out of our mouths.   
  
"So, the chip still works." Buffy observes with a nod.   
  
Xander feels his teeth with a wince. "Now I can't smell my food  _and eat it_ , is there anything worse than that?"  
  
Buffy raises an eyebrow. "Hurting Sam, maybe?"  
  
Attentions are turned toward the boy lying on the floor in front of the TV. He's sucking on the nipple of his empty bottle, snuggling into the cushion under his head and laughing his arse off at the same joke of the same sodding Mickey Mouse movie.   
  
Xander turns his gaze back to Buffy. "Objection approved."   
  
Buffy leans forward again, this time more focused and awake. "Maybe there's something in the song that sets off Spike somehow."   
  
Still feeling his undamaged teeth, Xander gives his two cents, "Maybe it's a trigger."  
  
Buffy gives him a look. "You think he's turning into a character from Winnie the Pooh?"  
  
"I said  _trigger._ "  
  
She yawns again. "Sorry."   
  
"What's that?" I ask him, surprised that he'd actually bring something interesting to the table.   
  
"It's a brainwashing term," Xander explains to Buffy, ignoring my existence as usual. "It's how the military makes sleeper agents. They… brainwash operatives and condition them with a specific trigger, like a song, that makes them drastically change at a moment's notice."  
  
"Great," I spit out with disgust and walk away, only to stop on my tracks at the sight of the broken furniture.   
  
"It's not just you anyway," Buffy says gently from her place on the couch. "There's something out there playing with all of us. Willow and Dawn had visits by dead people talking them into suicide."   
  
Xander shakes his head. "This is too Hellmouth-y for me."  
  
"You were the one who insisted on taking Spike. I think it's time Spike comes crashing in my basement." She gives a pointed glare when Xander is about to protest. "If Spike gets triggered again, his next victim will be either you or Sam."  
  
"She's right, Harris," I say softly, glancing at the boy singing one of the many Christmas jingles in his favorite movie.   
  
"I guess it's for the best," Xander complies halfheartedly. "But… be careful."  
  
"You don't have to worry about me. I can take care of myself."  
  
"It's not just you in that house. There's Willow and Dawn."  
  
"Nothing will happen while I'm there." She gives him a gentle squeeze on the arm. "C'mon now, I think we better take you to a hospital."  
  
"Nah, I've had worse. I can manage it at home." Xander rattles the ice cubes in the bag before pressing it on his nose with a wince.  
  
"Where Spike going?" Sam flips on his stomach, narrowing his eyes suspiciously at Buffy and myself heading for the door.   
  
Xander props his head up on the couch. "He's gonna sleep at Aunt Buffy's."  
  
Sam jumps to his feet like he's been pinched by hell itself. "No. Spike sleep here."  
  
With a tired sigh, Xander tosses the ice pack and hurries to catch his son who starts running towards me. The boy struggles in his father's tight grip, trying to get away and stop me from leaving. "No! Spike sleep here!"  
  
"Sam, this is not the time…"  
  
"Spike sleep here! Spike sleep here!"  
  
"Sammy, stop!"   
  
I stand beside Buffy, speechless. The way I understands it, this boy isn't capable of expressing emotions of love and so on. He's usually in his room, silently arranging his cars or number blocks. To see him so desperate to keep me in the flat makes me feel a bit… well…   
  
"It's all right, pet. Spike is here." I'm on my knees before him, grasping his shoulders into stillness. Xander eases his grip when Sam relaxes into my hold.   
  
"Spike sleep here."  
  
"Spike has to leave with Aunt Buffy, love. You understand, eh?"  
  
"No! Spike sleep here!"  
  
My helpless stare matches Xander's. I'm no expert on children all together, let alone someone like Sam. The boy has a thing for keeping every single detail in his life in order – he yaps about daily routines when he's not piercing our ears with numbers. He eats scrambled eggs in the morning, then watches his favorite movie at noon, then plays with his toys in the afternoon. He has to go to the supermarket with his dad on Fridays and eat dinners at Buffy's on Saturdays. Oh, and Dawn must come over to pick him up or all hell will break loose.   
  
Xander throws up his hands in surrender when the wailing reaches full volume. "All right, fine, Spike will sleep here."  
  
As expected, the wailing switches off right away.   
  
"That's out of question, Xander. He hurt you," Buffy objects instantly with her signature crossed arms and parted legs.   
  
"Then we'll find a way to keep him from hurting us."   
  
I can't help the amused grin. The git would do anything to keep his boy on mute, even hosting a vampire he despises more than Satan in his own home.   
  
"You don't have to deal with this stuff anymore."   
  
"I don't mind the occasional swoop in to help out from time to time."   
  
Despite her stance on the subject, Buffy responds to Xander's last comment with a small smile of gratitude. "Last time you helped out you saved the world."   
  
I raise an eyebrow at the flushing loser I've known for years. "Ain't that interesting."  
  
Xander gives a modest shrug that seems to be covering a geeky gleeful joy at the compliment. "I just talked Willow out of destroying it."  
  
"Getting more interesting," I add with complete confusion.  _Willow_  attempted to destroy the world and  _Xander_  saved it? My quest for a soul should have been postponed.   
  
"Maybe handcuffing Spike to bed will do." Xander gives Buffy an unsure look. "Do you think it'll do?"   
  
"You want me to get you some?"  
  
"No. I… I have a pair… for emergencies."  
  
So there it goes. My life decisions are being made by a couple of twenty year olds. Again. Though this time, I have no right to complain, but it doesn't mean I have to stand there and listen to their bollocks.   
  
I turn on the lights to the bedroom and gaze around in contempt. Where will bloody Harris handcuff me in his little bedroom? Too uptight to do it in bed, too decent to handcuff me to the foot of the bed. And I thought being tied up in Giles' tub was the most humiliating experience in my life.   
  
"So, how about we head to your house right now?" Xander's contemptuous voice drifts from outside.   
  
"Sounds great. How about it, Sammy?"  
  
"Dawn take me."  
  
"Dawn always did that," Xander says with a laugh. "You don't wanna see his stubborn side."  
  
"I've seen it plenty. I'm used to it."  
  
I let out a sigh and pad on bare feet to the bed. It's moments like this when I miss my fags the most. I'd have preferred being locked down in Buffy's basement instead of the upcoming humiliation, but something in the little bit's eyes… his desperation to have me stay… I'm probably reading too much into it, after all the kid is clinically insane. But it felt…   
  
I shake my head to get rid of every silly sentimental thought. Just because I have a soul, it doesn't mean I have to think like a nancy-boy.   
  
My solitude is interrupted by Xander barging in with a dopey grin on his face. "Just let me grab my…" Dopey grin is replaced with fish-gaping stare. "Spike?"  
  
"Where are those handcuffs?"  
  
He startles, red blood rushes to his cheeks, and suddenly he's turned into an awkward school boy about to score for the first time. "Um… they're right here."  
  
I give a nonchalant nod, watching him dig into the lower drawers inside his closet. He's been hiding the manacles in a drawer filled with his briefs and boxers – naïve git unaware of Maggie snooping in his belongings like an overbearing mother.   
  
Xander holds up the chains in his hands as if he's about to use them for the first time. I'm perfectly sure it is the case.  
  
Then again, I can see where the confusion is coming from. Where is he going to use them? His bed doesn't have a headboard after all. I don't suppose he's hiding shackles under his underwear inside the drawer.   
  
Xander places the useless handcuffs on the nightstand and scratches his head for a moment. He finally musters enough courage to stutter, "Do you… um… do you want to…"  
  
"Save you the trouble, no." I didn't expect he'd go there. Guess he does have some hidden depths. "You don't have to be all proper and polite, it doesn't suit you either."   
  
"Either?" He blinks; his moment of confusion dies when Buffy's laughter floats into the room. "Buffy. Right."  
  
He's silent now, his face an open-book as usual; I can tell by the little twist on his lips that unpleasant images of Buffy and I are twirling in his mind. I don't think I'm painted well in all of them. He always reduced my feelings for her to be a tainted obsession. He sees me as a serial rapist, stalking his best friend and getting off on her panties – never mind that all of that is true, but who the hell is he to judge me? Only the dullest, blandest, most decent man who never killed a soul…  _bugger_!  
  
I watch him walk across the room to drag a chair out of his study. He nods at it, and I wordlessly obey. He brings out a rope from the closet and starts tying me to the chair – like that will stop me from tearing it off when the crazy episode starts.   
  
Speaking of crazy, I never had the chance to think about what happened out there. I was about to slip. I did for mere seconds.  _He_  brought me back, the silly little runt.   
  
"About… your boy?"  
  
Xander tightens the knot on my wrist. "What about him?"  
  
"How did you know that he's…"  
  
"On the spectrum? It's obvious."  
  
"Not to me. He just acts like a spoiled little whelp for all I know. What did the doctor say?"  
  
"We went for a diagnosis but we didn't get through. Sammy hates hospitals and …"  
  
"You mean there is no official word?" There's a shock. With the way Harris flusters about his child, one would think he'd have gone to a dozen doctors and then some.   
  
A fierce glance and then, "No."  
  
"But that's not right. Maybe…"  
  
"I'm not gonna waste my time on 'maybe's, Spike." He pulls the knot on my ankle so tight that my skin is starting to bruise. "I also don't feel like discussing my son with you."  
  
"Will he recover?"  
  
"No."  
  
He stands back and checks his fine work before fetching his jacket. "Why all the sudden interest?"  
  
"He helped me out there."  
  
His eyebrows fly to his hairline. "Sammy?"  
  
"I was about to lose control again, but he brought me back."  
  
"Sammy?"  
  
"Kept whining about those bloody numbers."  
  
A soft chuckle rumbles out of his mouth as he puts on his jacket.   
  
"Can't let it get to me again," I mutter, testing the ropes with a tug. They're firm and tight, but I doubt they'll be much of use when it happens again. Though I don't mention that to Harris.   
  
"At least now you know what triggers it."  
  
"But how does that help? I hear that song and everything becomes dark. I wake up later and the damage is done."  
  
"Then turn on the light. After all, you found the switch."  
  
I give him a look. "Counting numbers?"  
  
"Keeping yourself focused on something. If counting numbers helps, then so be it."  
  
Laughter rises from outside. Sam's excited chanting announcing the arrival of Aunt Dawn is Xander's cue to leave.   
  
I throw him a teasing stare. "Thanks for the session, Dr. Kik, but it seems that everybody is ready to take off."   
  
There's a pause, a moment where it seems he's about to ask me to tag along. The moment passes, and the door closes shut after Harris. I sit alone and listen to their giggles and jokes disappearing with a door slam.   
  
Tied to my chair, I sit alone and count.   
  
  


~*~*~*~*~

  
  
  
"Two hundred and thirty-three, two hundred and thirty-four, two hundred and thirty-five…"  
  
Thick clouds are hanging low in the sky throwing blankets of black on silver tombstones. The shrouded moon looms huge with its light completely blocked, leaving the cemetery as dark as a lamp-less crypt. So silent and still – not even the faint sound of newly sired vampires trying to dig their way out of their graves – nothing to be heard but the crunching of the grass against my boots.   
  
I shouldn't walk alone out here like the easy target that I am. It's as if I'm asking to be _its_  puppet.   
  
"Two hundred and thirty-six, two hundred and thirty-seven …"  
  
"Call me old-fashioned but I thought people counted sheep lying down in bed."   
  
Her hair is soft curls falling on her shoulders – a moment of panic passes away swiftly when there's no corpse at my feet. She does wear her hair down from time to time. It's not always practical with her. She defies practical.   
  
"Just keeping myself under control."  
  
"Oh, anger management. Aren't you supposed to count to ten? How angry are you?"   
  
"Apparently much less than I was last time we talked at the cemetery." I can feel her breath and body heat standing near me. A smile of relief touches my lips, and it's contagious.   
  
I love it when she smiles. A rare gesture on her part, especially toward me. "Well, next time if you wanted to get out for some fresh air, you or Xander has to call me first."  
  
The unusual hint of anxiety in her voice softens the disapproval in her words. My smile doesn't waver. "You're right."  
  
"I know it sucks. Needing help," she admits with her finger awkwardly twirling one of her curls. "Last year, I'd have turned out better if I actually asked for help, but instead…"  
  
"You came to me." Those nights when she'd kick her way into my crypt; posture firm, tone demanding, but her eyes always desperate for  _something_  I thought I had.   
  
"It probably wasn't the right move, but at that moment it was what I needed."   
  
The warmth of her tone touches me, even though I don't believe what she said. What we had… I think back at the times when I used to sneak up on her in the Magic Box. It was our game. She'd pretend to keep the shop open late at night, except it was open for only one customer. No one suspected. Everything was going fine until that fateful night when Willow caught the show on the camera that was hidden by the nerd squad. She had enough sense to keep it from the others but not Buffy.  
  
The Magic Box closed early after that. Then she had come over to my crypt a few days later and told me it was over. I didn't understand. I  _couldn't_  understand. I didn't have the conscience. I went to her house, was arrogant enough to barge in into her bathroom, demand an explanation, too hurt, too angry to listen to her horrified cries of "No”.   
  
That was when Harris heard the screams and caught my crime. He almost killed me with an axe that night, but she stopped him.  
  
I still don't understand why she stopped him.   
  
The bruise on her thigh, her disheveled hair, the way she clutched her robe so close to her throat to hide herself from me – and yet she knocked the axe out of Xander's hands. Unable to look at me, she had ordered me to sod off; her trembling voice a thousand stakes repeatedly lunging at my heart.   
  
It was then when I realized I could never be the man she deserved. The man that would never hurt her. I realized I needed a soul.   
  
A vampire leaps off the tombstone and charges at Buffy, ramming into her midsection with his head. She slams to the ground as he pummels her with his fists. He doesn't know the vampire talking to the Slayer is her ally, and his shocked wide eyes are the last I've seen of him before I finish him off.   
  
Other ones appear in the core of the gust, the moon fights its way out of the clouds and sheds its light on their hideous faces.   
  
I miss this.   
  
I miss fighting by her side. There was light in the midst of the dark – good times, laughter and jokes thrown here and there between the sex and the abuse. It wasn't enough to make what we had healthy, though.   
  
The anguish desire we had for one another has left us desolated. She was right. She's always been. Wild love burns until there's nothing left. It never lasts.   
  
She will always be in my heart, however…  
  
She whirls and kicks, then leaps and launches a stake through another's heart.   
  
She will never be mine.   
  
  
  


~*~*~*~*~


	4. Chapter 4

  
  
  


~*~*~*~*~

  
  
  
  
  
  


**Chapter Four**

  
  
  
Autism is like being trapped in a cage of one's own world with the inability to get out simply because one is unaware that he or she has to. Thoughts are merely "automatic, mirrored repetitions" of others and words are nothing but the meaningless echoes of conversations spoken by the people around. Autism means lack of creativity and inventions, mostly…  
  
Mostly a bunch of bollocks.   
  
I don't buy it, even if the author is on the spectrum and talking from experience. What's written here is not what I have seen from Harris' little tyke. Not that I expect these people to be a copy of each other. I don't need experiences. I need direct, solid facts. This book, which funnily enough is a sequel from another book this sodding library doesn't have, isn't offering facts. What sort of public library is this if I can't find a single book titled "Autism for Dummies"?   
  
"Spike?"  
  
Dawn stares at me with eyes wider than her widely opened mouth. It's as if doing something other than strolling in cemeteries and drinking in bars is against my blood-sucking nature. Her gaze falls on the book I'm reading and her eyes grow even wider.   
  
Snapping the book shut, I rest my arm on the cover and manage a weak cough, "Xander wanted me to buy it."  
  
"Xander," she says skeptically. "Why doesn't he buy it himself?"  
  
"Right. Like he'll trust me to babysit the cub."  
  
She narrows her eyes at me. "And did Xander ask you to read it first?"  
  
The thin line of my tightly closed lips quivers before a heavy scoff bursts them open. "Fine, you got me."   
  
She places her giant textbooks on the table and snatches the book I was reading, going straight for the summary on the back cover.   
  
I crack my knuckles as she takes her time flipping through the pages of the book. "I just want to understand what I'm dealing with since I'll be living with the brat for a while. Harris vetoed any discussions about this with me."   
  
"And how's it going?"  
  
"Not great. Couldn't find Autism 101."  
  
Dawn places the book on the table and crosses her arms around her chest. "Why don't you try googling it?"  
  
"Whatever that is," I shake my head and raise an eyebrow, "I don't see myself doing it."  
  
She rolls her eyes. "You are as outdated as the guy you live with."   
  
"Hey! Don't you dare compare me to that…"  
  
"Several unfriendly adjectives describing Xander," she interrupts with an air of irritation, "Fine, whatever." Gathering her books in a hurry, she pulls me up by the arm. "Now follow me!"   
  
Her light brown hair bounces as she strides toward the counter with a confidence I don't remember. What I do remember though was her determined threat to set me on fire if I as much as think of touching a hair out of her big sister. Little Dawnie is all grown up. I'm not sure I'll get used to that any time soon.   
  
We stop by one of the library staff standing behind the counter to type some information into the computer about the book he's holding. The gangly boy flashes a bright smile when he sees Dawn approaching; that smile has tingles and he's obviously got a crush.   
  
"Hey, Walter, mind if we use the computer?"  
  
A snorty, awkward laugh. "Sure."  
  
Dawn steps behind the counter, standing next to the love-struck boy, and starts typing on the keyboard. For a moment it seems like Walter thinks he can just brush against her because it's his bloody computer. I step inside as well and shoot him the stare of his nightmares. He picks up some books and drags himself out of my sight.  
  
I turn my attention to Dawn checking out different websites. She appears so focused on her task, so ready to help it baffles me. Last time we were in the same room, she blamed me for the constant fighting between her sister and Xander, which I guess was my fault. She never talked to me after she threatened to kill me in my sleep, so this whole change of heart seems to come out of the blue.   
  
"There, all you need to learn about autism; symptoms and whatnot."  
  
I lean closer to the screen and scan through the webpage. "Interesting," I mutter as I read something about the obsession with numbers. "Do you think your chum Walter will let me use this for the night?"  
  
"If you're that interested in learning about autism…"  
  
"I'm not," I say decisively and look her straight in the eyes. "Let's make this clear. I'm not. I'm just being cautious."   
  
She stares at me, a long doubtful stare, studying me. Her eyes reflect mild confusion and disbelief. I look back at the computer screen, uncomfortable and hurt. She doesn't trust me. Who can blame her? I'm not sure I can trust myself. I'm not even sure why I'm doing this. I don't even care about Xander's little sprog.   
  
"I can lend you my laptop," Dawn says quietly. Her stare still calculating, but at least there's a small smile on her lips. "Xander's neighbor has an internet connection and I've already cracked his code."   
  
I straighten up, glad for the sudden change of mood, and give an impressed whistle. "Dawn Summers. You make me proud."  
  
"I thought you have a soul." She gives me a light nudge. "Unless it's only to stop you from killing and…" she trails off, biting her lower lip uneasily. She almost went  _there_.  
  
We're back to awkward. My smile dissolves right away.   
  
Dawn brushes her hair back and steps out of the counter. "Well, I'll bring the laptop over to Xander's tomorrow."  
  
I nod silently and remain staring at the floor until the sound of her pumping heartbeat gets fainter. Then I stumble out of the library and into the night. With any luck I'll run into Buffy in the cemetery and we can run some stakes into some hearts.   
  
  
  


~*~*~*~

  
  
  
Lazy afternoon. I'm lying on the couch while Harris Junior is watching the same rubbish again. Harris' ceiling is as plain and boring as him. Still it's something new to look at, unlike a certain Mickey Mouse movie I've had drilled into my bloody brain.   
  
 _"Say, uh, Mickey, why don't you play some music?"  
  
"I-Isn't it about time we were opening our presents? And, uh, speaking of time - What time is it?"  
  
"Well, I, um - I think it's time for you to open your gift."_  
  
I can anticipate each time the kid is about to burst out laughing – I've learned the hard way to fast-forward the "Again?" scenes after distracting him.   
  
Right now, he's going to use the couch as his personal trampoline because in half a minute the singing will begin.   
  
And he does.   
  
Piercing laughter rings in my ears, not as bad as his knee jamming my side as he jumps from one couch to another. No wonder the kid is brain dead. He spends most of his time doing nothing but watching telly.   
  
At last, the movie is over!  
  
"Again?" Sam looks at me expectantly.   
  
Time to take that whelp down a notch. Let him learn new words he's never heard before. I lean forward with my elbows on my knees and look at him fiercely.   
  
"No."  
  
"Huh?" He blinks. "Again?"  
  
"No."  
  
"Again?" he tries desperately.   
  
"It's Spike's turn now." I emphasize my point by switching from video mode to TV. I lean back against the couch with my arms folded behind my head. Propping my feet on the table earns me a scream of objection from Sam. Apparently, the boy is in on the sacred Harris household rules.   
  
 _"When you entered this competition, did you really believe that you could become the American Idol?" "Yes sir." "Well then you're deaf."_  
  
I have no clue what I'm watching. It doesn't matter, because the way little Sammy is glancing between the TV and me I know I'm in for an upcoming tantrum attack.   
  
"Moon! Moon! Moon!"  
  
"No."  
  
He's gone violent now to the point of smacking my mug off the table. Blood has smeared out and stained the carpet – which Harris will make sure I pay for later – but the mug is all right. The benefit of plastic mugs, you can't use them to heat blood in the microwave but they're handy against severe child tantrums.   
  
Maggie darts from the kitchen toward the DVD remote and restarts the movie. She snatches the other remote from my hand and switches back to video mode. Sam settles down in front of the TV when the Disney trademark appears. Eyes on the screen, he raises a hand to his nanny, "I want nummy."  
  
"It's called  _'bottle'_ ," I correct, but it goes unnoticed by both. Maggie simply sighs and then duly leaves to meet the boy's demands.   
  
A shiny star flickers on screen, sending a flash of tiny sparkling bits toward a house decorated with Christmas garlands.  
  
"Moon!" Sam jolts up, bum bouncing on the floor and points at the twinkling star in the beginning of the movie. He thinks the star is a moon and nobody bothered to correct him. Why am I not surprised? The boy's word is law, he gets a say in every single detail in the lives of those around him. I'm still holding my breath on the half closed blinds; Sam didn't start a tantrum over it yet. Possibly he started to like me enough to give me this one, but not enough to let me watch real folks on TV.   
  
He drops his head back on the pillow on the floor and starts doing this odd bit where he'd watch the movie out of the sides of his eyes. I've tried imitating him before just to see what's so appealing; I got a slight headache for my trouble.   
  
Maggie comes back with a bottle of milk and hands it to him. The boy sucks on the nipple and watches his favorite movie with such an interest you'd think he'd never seen it before.   
  
"It's here. Christmas time," I quote the voiceover in advance, point at the TV and then, " _It's here. Christmas time._ "   
  
Maggie chuckles.   
  
"I'm going insane any minute now," I tell her, noticing that she's on the verge of losing her mind as well.  
  
She points at the earpads hanging from her ears. "If he didn't scream earlier, I would've been still lost in the bliss of Celine Dion."   
  
I push the table with my foot and reveal the blood stain on the carpet.   
  
"Oh dear," she exclaims and sprints to fetch something to clean the damage.   
  
One more glance at Donald Duck and his obnoxious nephews sends me back to the bedroom. The fact that I know they're his nephews and not his children is sad enough, but not as sad as the sight of the chains and handcuffs still lying on Harris' bed after last night. I should have put them away – wouldn't want Maggie getting the wrong idea again. Tossing them into the closet, I turn around and take a dispassionate look at the dim room, and then turn on my heels and head for Sam's room.   
  
I almost step on the long line of cars starting from the door to the other side of the room. Looks like a line of colored ants. Maybe if I can find something to distract the kid, I can catch up on some  _Passions_  reruns. I missed the beginning of the new season what with being crazy in the school basement and all. The boy must be sick of the sight of cars, which is all I can see here – a disturbed glance at the car-shaped bed – seriously, you'd think Harris would put a little more diversity into the room.   
  
I catch the sight of the cowboy and astronaut dolls on the study desk. They look fun enough. I rush out carrying my saviors, and this time I trip on Sam's empty bottle, fall face down and scrape my jawline on the floor. Great. Sam takes time out of his movie to point and laugh at me.   
  
"Lookie here, wanker." I wince at the burn of the scratch in my chin, but manage to keep my anger under control. No point to blow up in the little git's face. When I hand him the toys, he just looks at them passively before lying back on his pillow to watch the movie.   
  
I wave them in his face, but he pushes them away dismissively. His hand presses on a button in the astronaut's chest and,  _"I'm Buzz Lightyear. I come in peace."_  
  
"Look at that. They actually talk." I pull the string on the back of the cowboy and he starts talking, too.   
  
To my dismay, Sam isn't interested at all.  
  
Knocks on the door. Dawn's scent. Maggie doesn't hear a thing as she's busting a move in the kitchen. My knees crack when I push myself up to my feet and head for the door.  
  
Dawn flashes a bright smile and holds up her laptop. "Dawn's delivery service, at your...uh...well, service." She pauses. "It's been a long day; I'm not feeling much like a thesaurus."   
  
I accept the offering, not exactly feeling the satisfaction I thought I would have. "Heard people can watch favorite shows with these."  
  
She purses her lips. "My, Spike, do I smell an interest in internet piracy?"   
  
Frustrated, I point a finger at the nipper hogging the TV. "Welcome to the Disney hell of Christmas carols where every day is December the twenty fifth. It's a magical horror!"   
  
Dawn nods in sympathetic understanding. "Yep, I'm familiar with  _Moon._ "  
  
"Why Dawn here? Today Tuesday." Sam jumps to his feet, alert and panicked, like someone whose entire life has been shaken out of order. Oh.   
  
"I just came to give Spike…"  
  
"Dawn come Saturday! Dawn come Saturday! Dawn come Saturday!" With flapping hands, he stampers to his room and slams the door shut.   
  
Maggie in the kitchen jumps. "Oh, oh, what's happening?"  
  
I place the laptop on the kitchen bar and wave her off. "Get back to Celine Dion, Maggie."  
  
She grins and holds a thumb up.   
  
"Impressive," I say to Dawn. "Can you swing by every day?"  
  
"Sorry. I got a life." She walks further into the room and accidently steps on the astronaut.  _"To infinity and beyond!"_    
  
"I've tried to get him to play with them," I explain, "Didn't work. Kid is addicted to sodding ducks singing Christmas jingles."  
  
Dawn takes a look at the abandoned toys. "He doesn't have any attachment to  _Toy Story_. Maybe a stuffed Mickey Mouse?"  
  
"He doesn't have one." Off her look, I add, "It gets boring here. A vamp's gotta occupy himself until sunset." I lower my voice just a bit, "Did you know that Xander has erotic cartoons under his stack of comic books?"   
  
Dawn gasps, face stricken with terror. "Spike, that is so… oh, Gosh, really?"  
  
At my nod, she giggles.  
  
I'm not ashamed to admit that I giggled, too. I also found a rabbit vibrator hidden in there as well. But that's not information I'd share with Dawn, grown up as she might be, she's still in high school.   
  
She shakes her head fiercely in an obvious attempt to clear her mind of disturbing images. "Okay, gotta solution for your problem: net shopping using Xander's MasterCard which he's hiding in his drawer of socks."  
  
I cross my arms over my chest and raise an eyebrow.   
  
"Saturday pickups, he refuses to leave until  _Moon_  is over," she says defensively, fetching her laptop from the kitchen bar. "Sometimes Xander takes advantage and runs off to get some errands; I pay him back by snooping. Although I am so glad I steered away from the comic books drawer." She flops down on the couch, crossing her legs, and places the laptop on her lap. "Go get the MasterCard."   
  
I find it exactly where she said. And to think I used to see her as nothing but an innocent lamb – although I should have seen her potential before when she snuck out of her house and broke into the Magic Box years ago.   
  
Sam peers out of his bedroom's door. "Dawn go?"  
  
"Not yet, sweetie," she answers him from her place on the couch.  
  
He screams and slams his door shut.   
  
"Seriously, I'll pay you," I beg desperately.   
  
"You don't have money."  
  
"No, but I have  _this_." I wave the MasterCard, which she snatches from my grip.   
  
She wiggles on the couch to get more comfortable and adjusts the laptop on her lap, turning it to show me the screen. "Check them out; we've got the mice, the ducks and the dogs." Her eyes light up with glee. "Oooh, baby Simba."  
  
I watch her with astonishment adding the stuffed lion to the list. "I don't remember lion cubs."  
  
"Oh, c'mon, who hates baby Simba?"  
  
I park my bum next to her and peer at the screen. There's an interesting redheaded doll with overalls on a commercials section. "How about this one?"  
  
Her eyes bulge out of their sockets. "We are NOT buying him Chucky!"  
  
"Why not? I like the smirk on this git."  
  
"Spike, the kid is afraid of his own shadow. We are not buying that freaky thing."  
  
With an indifferent shrug, I watch her type and click for a few seconds until she shuts down her laptop. "And that's how it's done, ladies and gentlemen. Or in this case, vampmen."  
  
"I'd raise my hat in admiration if I had one on. Now, excuse me, it's time for  _Passions_. Or what's left of it."  
  
As I flicker through the channels, I feel her eyes on me, studying me again. This time I don't let it be. "Yep, I've always been this sexy."  
  
She punches my shoulder. "I was just… it's been a long time since I've been forced to watch  _Passions_."  
  
I look at her, there's a bittersweet smile on her lips. "Right. Your mother…"  
  
Smile is gone and her hands shoot up in an attempt to strangle me. "Sometimes you get so dumb, Spike!"  
  
I scoot out of her way. "What? What?"  
  
"I meant  _us_ , moron!"   
  
"Oh." I stare at her. She stares back. "Yeah, long time. When was the last time…"  
  
"That summer when Buffy was dead," she interrupts me with an answer more pointed than Buffy's sharpest stake.   
  
I swallow under her meaningful stare. When Buffy came back, nothing seemed to matter but her. And kitten poker. But that's beside the point. I guess I did give Dawn the shaft. Poor Nibblet was so lonely she wished us all to be stuck in her house just for a nugget of attention.   
  
"You can join, for old time's sake," I say with a pat on her knee, "but one wiseass comment about Timmy and you're out."  
  
She grins, grabs a cushion and hugs it against her chest.   
  
I tilt back against the couch and place my feet on the table again. Perfect. TV is mine. Xander's little bundle of pain is hiding soundlessly in his room. Only a mug of blood and nothing can go wrong.   
  
"So, what are you and Sam going to do when the package arrives?"  
  
What a short-lived bliss. "No interruptions."  
  
"Are you gonna role play the scenes from  _Moon_  together? I've read something about how it helps…"  
  
"Whoa, whoa, hold it there, missy!" I mute the TV and look at her like she's grown two heads. "Role playing what together?"  
  
She blinks at me in confusion. "You know, you and Sammy."  
  
I shake my head, hands and the remote I'm holding. "There's no me and Sammy."  
  
"But the toys we ordered…"   
  
"Are nothing but a well-meaning distraction," I cut her off with a you-should-know-better stare, "so that I can get some TV time."  
  
Her brows furrow in displeasure as her whole body stiffens around the cushion she's holding. "I thought you wanted to help Sam."  
  
"I don't know where you got that idea. I never said I wanted to help him. I wanted to help  _me_  get rid of him." As I'm saying the words I know that was the wrong thing to say to her, especially judging by the disgusted twist of lips that followed.   
  
"Guess your plan worked," she says dryly, grabbing her laptop and jumping to her feet. "I don't think you need this anymore."  
  
I try to find the words to stop her, but my tongue is tied by how much of a pillock I sounded.   
  
She stops by Sam's door with a vengeful smirk on her face. "Sam, Dawn's gone!" With a hair toss, she strides to the door and slams it behind her.   
  
Bloody hell, she's evil.   
  
Sammy flings his door open and trots to the living room, chanting on the top of his lungs, " _Moon, Moon, Moooooooooon!_ "  
  
I slip off the couch and land on the floor, catching the sight of the still wet spot where my blood stain was. Sam manages to drag Maggie and her earpads to the living room and hands her the remote. The singing featherheads return to my screen, and Sam starts dancing, kicking the DVD case back with his foot.   
  
I grab the thing and stare at a picture of Mickey Mouse standing by a Christmas tree, holding a candle.  _Mickey's Once Upon A Christmas_  is the title of my jingling nightmares. I take that DVD case and beat myself over the head with it.   
  
  
  
  
  


~*~*~*~

  
  
  
  
It's already dark outside and Harris isn't showing any sign of wanting to hit the sack. He's sitting there on the couch with his construction plan wide open on the table, measuring this and that with a long, wooden ruler. Snorting, I realize that Harris should not be in the same sentence with long and wooden. One glance at the ponce scratching his temple in deep thought and a shudder of revulsion crawls down my spine.  
  
Usually Sammy would be catching some z's at this hour, but here is Mickey Mouse playing his sodding harmonica on TV. To make matters worse, the kid who's supposed to be watching this bollocks has better things to do, like walking in circles and listing today's events.  
  
"… and then I drink nummy, and then Dawn come, and then I go room, and then Dawn go, and then I watch  _Moon_ …"  
  
That's my hell. Every single night. I'm stuck here until Harris grows a pair and defies his son's wishes. And, of course, 'til I get to sleep without chains binding me to the bed. Suppose I can get out for a while, kill something after pummeling it to a chunk of flesh and bones. The problem is… the idea of killing and causing mayhem isn't as thrilling as in the old glory days. It just feels like a lot of unnecessary work when you have a Slayer who doesn't like being disturbed in her job. I think the soul is turning me into a coffin-dodger whose only purpose is to watch some telly.   
  
Speaking of the soul, how round the twist was Dawn today? Thinking I'll be safe as houses just because I have a fancy soul in me. The fact that I don't relish the kill as much as I used to and like a bit of leisure does  _not_  mean I want to play house with Wanker Harris.   
  
I slam my hands on my knees and force myself to get off the couch, dragging my lazy bum to the fridge. Nothing like a mug of blood to help me endure this torment. A cringe runs through me at the sight of the colored number magnets with their wide round eyes staring at me. I've already swore off the boy's room, 'cause it's bad enough to hear about numbers every single second of the day let alone see them everywhere.   
  
All of a sudden, two tiny hands cling to my jeans. With a mental curse, I look down at Sammy gazing up at me with an expression deprived of emotions. "Why… uh, why… uh, why… um, why…" he actually swallows after each stutter.   
  
"On with it already!" I bark impatiently.   
  
His hands recoil from my jeans and begin to flap. "NO!!!!"  
  
"Spike, don't yell at him!" Xander snaps from where he's sitting. Thankfully, he remains there instead of marching to the rescue with his unused baseball bat.   
  
I grumble under my breath from one to ten and then crack my stiffening neck. With an involuntary small smile, I kneel to the floor until I'm at the grizzle's height. "What do you want?"   
  
He rubs on his dimpled chin, lost in thought. I remain kneeled down with my enforced smile for a whole minute while the boy stares at the numbers on the fridge with the sides of his eyes.   
  
Releasing a heavy sigh, I stand up and pull the fridge open, an action that sent those distracting number magnets away from his sight. That's when the tiny hands come attacking again. I recount from one to ten, but this time with a loud growl, push the door of the fridge close and then glare down at him.   
  
"Why… why… why… why…"  
  
There we go again. I wait until he's able to spit it out.  
  
"Why… oh, why… why Dawn, why Dawn come Tuesday?"  
  
"How the hell should I know?"  
  
"Huh?" He blinks up in dumb innocence, expecting me to give a more satisfying answer.  
  
"He's got a point," Xander says while drawing a long line with a pencil, "Why did Dawn come over?"  
  
"Like she needs a reason to drop in." I free my jeans from Sam's death grip and walk out of the kitchen to the living room.   
  
Harris has a pencil tucked behind his ear as he reviews his work on the big sheet of paper on the table. "She knows that Sam freaks out when things aren't going according to schedule."   
  
With an eye roll, I give my best cynical scoff. "Next thing you'll say she should leave a notice first."  
  
"That's not a bad idea. If I knew beforehand, I would have explained it to Sam…"  
  
"Oh, come on!" Fortunately, the aggressive knocks on the door saves me from this dim-witted conversation.   
  
Xander looks up from his papers with a frown. "Who's visiting at this time of night?"   
  
I shake my head, walking over to open the door. It's only eight p.m. He makes it sound like midnight.  
  
Outside is a grumpy delivery boy with a package. If I'm not mistaking, inside are the toys Dawn and I ordered from the internet. The boy literally pushes the signing sheet in my face – what's gotten his knickers in a twist? I'm the one who should be spitting tacks, considering that the store is in this teeny-tiny town, this box should have been delivered hours earlier.   
  
"Who is it, Spike?" Xander's voice drifts from inside.   
  
I carry the huge box and walk back into the flat, kicking the door shut with my foot. "Sammy, here's something for you," I sing-song it as I lay the box before the child.   
  
"Huh?" The tyke is as dense as his pops.   
  
I can't contain myself as I break the box open and hold up a Mickey Mouse. "Hi-ya, Sammy," I imitate the mouse's aggravating voice.   
  
Sam looks like he's about to wet his beloved Donald Duck PJs. "NOOOOO!!!" He runs for his life and jams his bedroom's door shut behind him.   
  
"What the hell was that?" Xander strides toward the box, eyes wide with fury. He takes a hold of a stuffed Goofy and flips it in his hand like he's checking for fleas.   
  
"I only bought him a few presents with your money."  
  
"Spike! You jackass!" Xander throws Goofy inside the box and gives me a hostile shove.   
  
"What?" It takes all my willpower not to shove him back and risk a brain fry. "Is that what I get for buying your son some toys to play with?" I try to remember the rubbish Dawn was telling me today, and add, "He can use them to, what's it, role-play scenes from effin'  _Moon._  I'm sure he's memorized it by heart."  
  
"I told you Sam can't use his imagination!" he barks, his spit spraying on my face. "Don't you think that if he wanted these I'd have bought them for him already?"   
  
"Oh, I believe you," with a sarcastic mutter, I wipe the Harris germs from my lips and nose.   
  
His beady eyes look like they're about to shoot fire. "What's that supposed to mean?"  
  
"It means that instead of thinking of ways to help your bloody son, you just get him off your back by spoiling him rotten."   
  
His nose scrunches like he caught a whiff of his son's dirty nappies. "Help him?"  
  
"You know, become less crazy."  
  
He holds up his hands and lets out an unamused laugh. "That's rich coming from you."   
  
I can't believe he just went there. I'm about to snap back at him but I can see that's not going to end well. I get back to the point. "No, the best solution is to let him run your house as he pleases. He gets to decide when Dawn drops in, where to have your dinner and what to watch on the sodding TV."  
  
"He's autistic. That's who he is."  
  
"That's what you're telling yourself. But the truth is you just wanna pretend he's a hopeless case so you can get your jollies and go on your merry way."   
  
Xander stiffens, looking like he got the slap of his life. I've obviously struck a nerve. He does look like he's about to explode with his fingernails digging deeply into his palms. That's when his beefy hands grab me by the collar and cause the back of my head to smack against the wall. Bloodshot eyes bore holes in mine as his hot, angry breath burns my face.   
  
"He's my son," his voice quivers in pure anger and hatred, "I decide how to raise him. Not you." His grip on my collar trembles with a need to do more to me; punch me, hit me, beat me to a bloody pulp. Instead, he heaves a shuddering sigh and lets go of me, watching me slip to the floor with quiet satisfaction.   
  
He turns around and walks a few steps toward his son's room before he stops. Looking at me over his shoulder, he says, "If living here with us is such an inconvenience, then by all means leave."  
  
Gathering what's left of my dignity, I retort, "You sure he won't throw another tantrum when he finds out that Spike has left the building?"  
  
"I can handle Sam. What I don't need is the likes of you judging me and my son in my own house." His voice is calm with underlying steel, reflecting the burn in his eyes.   
  
I watch him walk into his son's room; hear his angry voice melting into a tender one, trying to calm down the scared child, who is asking over and over, "Mickey go? Mickey go?"   
  
There's a sickening feeling growing inside, I block it, bury it down, and replace it with anger. No more humiliations by the Harris clan. It's about time I move out of the asylum.   
  
  


~*~*~*~

  
  
  
  
Moving out of Xander's to Buffy's isn't exactly an upgrade, but I'd call it a small improvement. Anywhere is a better place than that dump of Christmas jingles and numbers. But when Dawn answers the door, I curse myself for not being man enough to search for a brand new crypt instead.   
  
"What are you doing here?" The little Summers curls her lips, crosses her arms and narrows her eyes at the plastic bag in my hand.   
  
"Is Buffy around?" I ask directly, not in the mood for another spitting match.   
  
"She already went out." She leans against the doorframe and nods her head at the bag. "What did you do?"  
  
"Sure, always blame the vampire," I sneer with resentment, "How bigoted of you." Flinging the bag over my shoulder, I wince when the chains inside smack against my back.   
  
She raises an eyebrow.   
  
I relent with a sufferable sigh. "The package arrived. It wasn't a big hit. Harris and I got into a big blow over it, and here I am."  
  
"You're gonna stay here?" Her tone isn't exactly welcoming, but she does move out of the way to let me in.   
  
"Yep. Who better to watch out for me than the Slayer?" The stench of pizza is wafting from the living room where the sound of a woman wailing at the top of her lungs about being beautiful blares from the TV.   
  
"I thought you got better." She closes the front door and flips her long hair back. "That's why you're not chained 24/7."  
  
"You don't know when it'll strike again," I say absentmindedly, catching the sight of a small framed picture of the three Summers women. They look happy, filled with hope for a bright future, unaware of the upcoming deaths and heartbreak.   
  
"Did Sam make a fuss, you know, a-about you leaving?" Her voice reeks with anxiety. Little Sammy inflecting horror in the hearts of the unstoppable Scooby Gang.   
  
"I buggered off before he saw me." I drop my bag and sit at the bottom of the stairs, rubbing my throbbing forehead. I should have gone for a drink first. This long night doesn't appear to be ending anytime soon.   
  
Dawn leans against the banister and shakes her head in dismay. "Poor kid. And poor Xander."  
  
"Right. Take his side."  
  
She tilts her head and crosses her arms again, getting quite good at imitating her sister. "Spike, it's not easy to raise a boy like Sam."  
  
"So it's better to always indulge his whims," I retort with a scornful chuckle.   
  
"Xander's just trying to make him comfortable." She sits down next to me and leans back against the banister. "Sam has a lot of sensory problems coupled with so many other issues. He needs love and support and Xander is giving him that."  
  
"You don't know what you're talking about. You didn't live with the barmy bunch."  
  
Her icy eyes stare at me with a look that can kill.  
  
"What?" I ask, scooting away a little because she does look awfully brassed off.   
  
"I was thinking about that soul of yours. Is it even on? 'Cause it sure looks like it's out of batteries."   
  
I stagger to my feet and shake an indignant finger in her face. "Hey, I got the soul for…"  
  
"Buffy," the name rolls off her tongue like a curse she's sick of hearing, "It's all about Buffy. The rest of us can fry to death for all you care."  
  
I hold up a hand, about to defend myself, but then I'm stopped by the thought,  _'Why?'_ Why should I care what others think when they don't even bother to pretend they trust or care about me?   
  
I lower my hand and look her in the eyes, my words coming out in gruff rumbles, "Buffy is the only one of you lot who treats me with any bit of decency ever since I came back."  
  
"Oh, yeah, we're horrible monsters," she remarks, rising to her feet as well, "I got you my laptop…"  
  
"And you took it away!"  
  
"Fine, then what about all the blood Xander has for you in his fridge?" Her voice grows shrill, heartbeat pounding, and her eyes flashing up with hostility. "He opened his home for you. He let you sleep in his bed. He even played  _poker_  with you!"  
  
"Poker without betting!" I take a step forward and now we're face to face, glaring at each other like mad bulls. "I never knew that was possible but the daft tosser managed it somehow. And let me tell you something about the sleeping arrangement, nothing to do with me. It's all because little Sammy needs the sodding blinds open. Harris never wanted me in his bedroom or his home. If it were up to him, he'd have tossed me off his balcony and never looked back."  
  
"What's all that noise?" a sleepy voice from upstairs cuts through my argument. Clad in plain green pajamas, Willow stumbles down the stairs with a yawn longer than it takes Xander to come up with a decent bluff. "Spike, what are you doing here? I mean, uh, hi, nice to see you."  
  
"He left Xander's," Dawn explains with a grumble.   
  
Willow blinks her sleep away. "But what about Sam?"  
  
With a glare up at the ceiling, I gripe, "What about bloody Sam?"  
  
"He will freak out. You gotta go back."   
  
I turn my gaze between Willow's wide eyes and Dawn's intense scowl. "You two are a couple of loons, aren't you?"  
  
They share a look that speaks volumes, a look that stretches for so long I'm starting to think they're having a conversation telepathically.   
  
Willow breaks out of the stare first, her face determined without a trace of her previous apprehension. "You have to go back to Xander's."  
  
I bring my face close to hers and give her my favorite word of the day, "No."  
  
"Spike, Xander has been through a lot…"  
  
"I've been through worse!"  
  
"You… you weren't here when…"  
  
"When  _what_? Enlighten me." There's a big secret revolving around Xander and his kid. I've suspected that years ago, but never cared to investigate. Right now that big secret is looming over me, affecting my life, and it's time to put a stop to it.   
  
"It's not my story to tell," Willow mumbles apologetically after a brief glance at Dawn. "But trust me, Xander doesn't need any more trouble than he already has."  
  
Dawn seizes my arm and pulls me toward the direction of the kitchen. "Spike, I know you think we don't trust you. I know you think we hate you. Please, if you care about me, even just a little…" her attempt to sound firm and confident flails when her voice trails off with a pleading hitch.   
  
I'm about to respond with a "No" again, but then I'm met with her eyes, these misty hopeful eyes. It's that look she used to reserve for me back when she saw me as a hero who could make everything better. Nostalgia warms its way through my soul and leaves me calmer with regret over the dear old days.   
  
"Fine." The bitterness seeps through my voice. "I'll go back to the house of hell."  
  
"Thank you, Spike," Willow says with sincere gratitude, but it doesn't move me the way Dawn's poignant smile does. I glance at the small framed photo, those Summers women.   
  
  
  


~*~*~*~

  
  
  
  
Bad idea. I shouldn't have come back. This is a bad, bad idea. I knew it before I walked in, but now as I hear the low sniffles coming from Xander's bedroom I know for a fact that I should have chained myself to the bed in Buffy's basement. A heavy load of something painful weighs in my chest as the sound grows stronger. I should just get out. He won't like it when he knows that I'm standing here, listening to him weeping. But then I remember Dawn's smile of hope and trust, yearning to have her hero Spike back, so I close the front door gently and place the bag on the floor.   
  
I look at his door for a while, unsure what to do as I'm becoming more uncomfortable with every sob. This is the second time I hear him sobbing his arse out like… nah, I don't feel like taking a jab at him. That sickening feeling from earlier is back at full force. I can feel it, the soul, it's doing it again. Maybe it did turn me into a softie.  
  
I make my way to the living room and sit on the couch; I'll have to wait it out. Bloody hell, he's getting louder. Obviously, he doesn't know I'm here, intruding on his privacy. Last time he used the laundry machine to block the sound.   
  
For some reason, this time sounds more heart wrenching than the last. Sammy must have pulled a new one on Daddy Dearest after realizing I was gone. The tantrum must have lasted longer than usual, more violent, more tiring, leaving Xander too exhausted and worn out.   
  
My gaze flickers at the unfinished construction plans and that bloody feeling eats me up. _Guilt_ , I'm not going to tip-toe around it anymore, I feel guilt. I wronged him. I shouldn't have…  _"It's not easy to raise a boy like Sam."_  Thank you, Dawn, for stating the obvious.  
  
 _"Xander has been through a lot."_  What Willow said brings back a few vague memories: seeing Xander and Sam hanging about Buffy's house a lot a couple of years ago. Because Xander used to live in the Summers' basement. Joyce used to babysit Sam instead of Xander's mother. Was he kicked out of his house because he knocked up some chit? Maybe his parents are dead? Maybe the mother was turned and killed them? Who is the mother anyway and why isn't she around?  
  
The soft click of the door opening brings me back to reality. I didn't even notice that the crying stopped. Xander walks out of his room and heads for the kitchen, numb dead movements. He opens the fridge, gets out a bottle of water, turns around and…  
  
"What are you doing here?" he sounds embarrassed and ashamed, his face flushing red.   
  
I look down at his plans, avoiding eye contact. "Apparently I came here to apologize."   
  
"Buffy kicked you out, didn't she?" his voice is cynical, a lousy attempt to cover his embarrassment.   
  
"No one kicked me out. Came out of my own free will." I look up again, watching him drink half of that bottle with one long swallow. "I gather Sam was upset that I left?"  
  
He coughs some water out, having drunk more than he should. "Don't flatter yourself." He wipes his mouth with his pajama sleeve, his suspicious eyes on me. "Is that why you're back?"  
  
"Part of it."  
  
He closes the bottle and returns it into the fridge. There's a pause, thick silence takes over, falling on the flat like a shroud. As I'm on the edge of throwing an inappropriate comment, he starts to walk back to his room, stopping midway to throw a simple, "You can stay."  
  
I heave a shuddering sigh, about to get up and follow him, when he adds, "But you're sleeping on the couch tonight."  
  
My brows furrow in confusion. "There's no couch in the bedroom."   
  
He smirks. "That soul of yours did make you a goofball."  
  
It takes me a few seconds to understand what he meant by  _couch_. Wide eyed, I gesture for the couch I'm sitting on. "What? Here?"  
  
He gives a nod of confirmation.   
  
"What if Sam wakes up?"  
  
"Then it's your problem," he says, closing his bedroom door behind him.   
  
"Wait a minute," I stumble from the living room to his door, "What if he opens the blinds while I'm sleeping, do you think it's wise for him to watch me fry like a chicken?"  
  
"Again, your problem!"  
  
"But… but what about the chains?"  
  
He opens his door. "All right, I'll chain you to the foot of the couch."  
  
I stare at him. "You're serious."  
  
" _Dead_  serious."   
  
I hang my head in dismay.  _Bugger!_  
  
  


~*~*~*~

  
  
  
  
As it turns out, hell did not freeze over when the boy found me snoring on the couch. He was so overjoyed to see me back he didn't mind the closed blinds.   
  
"Two thousand forty five," Sam exclaims with the same excitement he had since he started with "One."  
  
"Two thousand forty-six," I mutter with the same boredom I had since I started with "Two."   
  
"Two thousand forty-seven!" He jumps from one arm of the couch to the other and then flounders over the back. The boy just never tires of moving even though his intake of sugar is limited. Must be those loads of nummies he keeps drinking.   
  
So, here I am, on the couch chugging my sorrows away with a mug of blood.   
  
"What after two thousand forty-seven?" He lands on my back like a bomb – good thing my mug is empty or there would have been a fresh new stain on the carpet.   
  
"Two thousand forty-eight," I answer with clenched teeth.   
  
He goes back to jumping merrily to the other side. "Two thousand forty-nine!"  
  
This is worse than bloody torture! I catch the sight of the box delivered last night, noting its damaged edges after I broke its lid open with enthusiasm. I could use the toys to scare him away. He would probably start a fit over it though and my head is already spinning without the bawling.   
  
"More blood?" Maggie floats over with the bag of pig's blood. She has been gracious enough to play bartender with my blood, making sure my mug is full since we started counting.   
  
I take a soothing sip and watch Goofy and Max decorating the Christmas tree on the screen. They're discussing the existence of Saint Nick or, as dubbed by the Americans, "Santy Claus." Then Goofy gets himself zapped by Christmas lights.   
  
"What after two thousand forty-nine? What after two thousand forty-nine?" The tugging on my shirt and nagging in my ear have me staring wistfully at the smoke rising from an electrocuted Goofy, wishing it was me instead. Not too late for that, give the brat's cheek one little pinch and I'll get my brains mucked up.   
  
"What's after two thousand forty-niiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiine?"   
  
"Two thousand bloody fifty!" I can't help but scream it out.   
  
Sam shakes his finger in disappointment. "No. No. Two thousand  _fifty_."  
  
"I just… I just said… oh, bugger!" The boy can be too literal.   
  
The toy box is calling out my name, and I know that my sweet release lies in its fuzzy toys.   
  
Sam is tugging again. "What after two thousand fifty-one?"  
  
Shoving the boy aside, I fly to the box and dig my hand inside the pile of fluff. "How about we play a new game?" I hold up Mickey Mouse and wriggle it in front of Sam.  
  
He hastily retreats to the same reaction as last night: a scream of horror followed by flapping hands and ends with the slam of the door.   
  
Good riddance. Seizing the remote control, I turn off the DVD and send the whole flat into thick silence, only disturbed by the clinging of the plates in the kitchen. Settling on the couch and before switching the modes on the TV, I hear the faint creak of the door and the shuddering breaths of a scared little lamb.   
  
There it is again. The guilt. It leaks through my body like toxic, paralyzing every sense into immobility. Dawn's hopeful eyes, Xander's crying, and now Sam's raging heartbeat have clobbered me into a corner. I'm whipped.   
  
The boy is still peeping from the door, eyes wide with fear and uncertainty. Since when are children afraid of stuffed animals? The haunted deer look is more than I can handle, why isn't Xander doing anything about this?  _"He's autistic. That's who he is."_  
  
Well, it's time to test that sodding theory. His gaze follows me as I sit cross-legged next to the box of his nightmares. He jerks when I draw out Mickey and Goofy, about to delve into his bedroom. Better start the puppet show at once. After a much needed deep breath, I try my best American Midwest accent as I shake Goofy, "Hiya, Maxie, wanna help?"  
  
He freezes in place, still frightened, but not rushing into hiding. I go for the dialogue in the recent Goofy and Max short, which I've had burned into my brain, with Mickey playing the role of Goofy's son. "Did you know that there are two billion children in the world?" Max's raspy little voice is harder to mimic, but I hear no complaints from my audience.   
  
"Hmm, no wonder I keep tripping over roller stakes," 'Goofy' replies.   
  
"That means Santa would have to make 800 visits a second, not including  _bathroom_ breaks." Maggie is casting amused smirks my way from the kitchen where she's wiping the sink clean.   
  
"I guess old Santy's been at it so long, he figured out the short cuts." Seems my little puppet show is a success. Not only is Sam not fleeing away in horror, but he keeps inching closer and closer, captivated by my accurate adaptation of his favorite film.   
  
Filled with confidence, I'm about to say the next line when abruptly the Mickey doll gets snatched from my grip and thrown away. "No Mickey Mouse. Max." I have to say I was foolish not to have seen this one coming.   
  
"There's no Max doll in the store," I reason with low tones to avert provoking a new flappy-hands panic attack. "So, we'll pretend Mickey is Max, yeah? After all they're both tiny and minus the ears they look exactly like each other."  
  
I earn a stubborn foot stomp for my trouble. "No! Max."  
  
"Fine, okay, how about the harmonica short with Mickey and Minnie?" I bring out the female version of Mickey Mouse. "Look, this is Minnie Mouse."  
  
He takes a fretful step back and shakes his head. "No."  
  
I finally got him out of his room, so I better play this safe. "All right, I'm putting the dollies away. Why don't we watch your precious  _Moon_  instead?"  
  
And so, we're back to square one. He's watching  _Moon_  and sucking on the nipple of an empty nummy bottle and I'm watching Maggie preparing a small snack for Xander's arrival.   
  
When the ending credits of  _Moon_  start rolling, Sam strides off the couch and hugs one of my legs, his eyes bright with pleading anticipation. "What after two thousand fifty-one?"  
  
"Oh, bloody hell!" I hold up my hands in surrender and buck up to restart  _Moon_.   
  
I don't even wait to make sure the boy is preoccupied, choosing to hide my arse behind Maggie in the kitchen. She chuckles, pointing at the number magnets on the fridge. "He does love those numbers."  
  
The round eyes are staring at me again, but this time they spark an idea. I grab three number magnets and rush into Sam's room for a toy car. The number three stickers on Sam's wardrobe stop me for a moment and I look at the three magnets in my hand – I should pick out Number Three.   
  
Sam is sitting on the coffee table, laughing hysterically at the same joke for the hundredth time. At least he's in a good mood. I drop on the floor next to him, starting my made up production of the "Number Show."   
  
"Hello there, Number Eight, fancy a ride to school?" Posh Number Seven asks, sitting on top of a red toy car.   
  
"Sorry to disappoint, mate, but I rather have a fork jammed into my eye than be seen in that old banger," Grouchy Number Eight retorts.   
  
"At least I have a car," Number Seven remarks, "You've got none."  
  
"I'm made of wheels, you miserable sod." Number Eight demonstrates by lying on its side and making beep noises.   
  
Sam doesn't laugh at my attempt of humor but he's watching with intense interest. Time to invite the kid to play along.   
  
Number Eight straightens up. "Anyway, you haven't seen… uh, Number Three's smashing motor."   
  
I toss Number Three and a blue toy car at a quiet Sam.   
  
"Oi, Number Three, Number Three?" Number Eight calls out.   
  
Sam's brown eyes regard me with confusion while he remains perched on the table in complete stillness and silence. His gaze slides to the green magnet next to him, his mind probably racing with anxious thoughts.   
  
"Number Three? Where are you?" I press, tapping my yellow magnet on the table impatiently.   
  
His gaze flickers between my magnet and his in a moment of doubt and uncertainty. I answer his unsure glance with an encouraging smile and simply wait. My knowing smile deepens when his tiny hand leaves his lap. He wraps timid fingers around his magnet and clutches it tightly.  
  
"Number Three?" I repeat, drawing my magnet closer to his.   
  
In a voice quieter than the breeze, he replies, "Yes?"  
  
"Will you take me to school?"   
  
Sam nods meekly.   
  
Mission accomplished.   
  
We play for more than an hour – Maggie couldn't have been more surprised I lasted that long – but for some reason I find the whole experience intriguing. Sam, who's been accused of lacking on the imagination front, is now picturing the couch Number Three's home and the dinner table the school. I add more numbers to the script, but Sam prefers to play solely with Number Three. I purposely stray away from sticking to a routine, choosing to introduce new incidents and situations.   
  
That doesn't make him fret or start violent tantrums. He's actually enjoying himself, albeit in a quiet, shy manner – he barely joins in conversations and never calls the shots, but he's willingly going along with whatever I say.   
  
The sound of keys opening the front door reaches my ears. "What's going on?" Xander drops his suitcase and hardhat, staring at Sam playing with the number magnet and the blue car. Confusion written all over his face, he's trying to make sense of all this racket.  
  
I toss one of the magnets at him and he catches it easily. "There comes the new school master. Come over here, Teach, give us a lesson or two."  
  
"Daddy, look Three go to school," Sam shares with innocent glee.   
  
A goofy grin begins to spread over his father's face. Things pick up after that, there's a notable confidence in Sam's voice with his father around. All is well and dandy in the land of doom.   
  
"Coast is clear," Xander whispers with a nod at the TV where Goofy is preaching about helping the less fortunate. "Don't you wanna catch up on some soaps?"  
  
"One soap," I reply defensively, "and it's already over by now. But, I'll watch anything if it means shutting Goofy's gob."  
  
TV is showing a sitcom about a redheaded woman who sounds like Goofy – change the channel! An action movie, something Harris would enjoy more than I, if he isn't occupied with playing with his son. He hasn't even noticed that my feet are on the coffee table.  
  
Sam is smiling now, engaged mind and body with the game. Xander looks different as well, less grumpy and more… more relaxed. Come to think of it, he's always been on edge whenever he's dealing with the boy, always afraid of the next storm. But now, they look like they came out of a commercial.   
  
Action movie forgotten, I watch father and son engrossed in a rare moment of normality. And try not to smile.   
  
  


~*~*~*~*~


End file.
